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JWaries { 

• * ' 7 



"•■U I •!■•» 


American Monthly: 



. ■ • -. 
. . " - 



VOLS. XVI. AND XVII.— 1881. 


John E. Potter & Company, 

No. 617 SANSOM ST. 






• »«7 





Angels (The City of the)— Josephine Clifford .... I 

Angels (The) in the House 82 

April First at Netherby Place — Ella F. Mosby .... 350 

Art Needlework — Annie M. Harper 41, 136 

"As I Walked with Myself" 360 

Bear and Share — A. J. H. Duganne ....... 168 

Beauty (To)— Helen Herbert 544 

Berlioz (Hector) — Charlotte Adams 132 

Better — Anna M. Benedict 464 

Billyh Sake (For) : A Christmas Story— Robert C. Myers 73 

Book-Bindings (Some) — W. N. Doubleday 424 

Carlyle (Home Life of Thomas) — Grey I Putnam . . . 438 
Cousin (His Country) : A Christmas Story — Charles 

Stokes Waynt 49 

Cyn — Keziah ShelUm 225, 332, 449, 540 

Demon (The Little)—^. P. Shillaber 501 

Eb and I take a Trip— G. S. S. Richards 356 

Eliot (George) — Grey I Putnam 340 

Embroidery for Home Decorations — Marian H Ford .214 
Excursion (An) to the Rocky Mountains — James Cle- 
ment Ambrose . . . . . 97 

Fan Fluttering — Anna M. Benedict .•3 I 9 

Fancy- Work (Novelties in) — Marian Ford . . 363, 458, 555 

Fire-Ship (The Spectre) — William L. Stone 498 

Fontainebleau — A. L. Basset 149 

For Her Sake— Hart Ayrault 537 

Forest- World (Subjects of the)— George Bancroft Grif- 
fith 481 

Fortunio (Song of )— C. R. W. 448 

Furniture and Furnishing — Eleanor Moore Hiestand . .521 

Heart-Echo (A) — James Hungerford 152 

Henderson's (Captain) Escape — A. E. C. Maskell . . 169 

Home and Society 91, 1 86, 282, 379, 474, 570 

Home (A Rural) — Guy Ainslee 108 

Homes (Attractive) — Marian Ford 53 

House ( The ) that Jack Built — Louise Seymour Houghton 1 53 

Hugo (Victor)— Emily F. Wheeler 529 

Institution (A Model)— G. S. S. R.+ 77 

Island (A Visit to Blennerhasset's) — Alice C. Hall . . 289 

June — Charles R. Williams 5O4 

Kith and Kin— The Author of "The First 

Violin" 237, 30s, 409. 5°5 

Knitted- Work— Marian Ford 165 

Launching a Ship — George Bancroft Griffith 144 

Legend (A Golden) — Ella F. Mosby 172 

Letter (A Fictitious) — Ernest Ingersoll 159 

Letter-Carrier (Neptune's) — Frances E. Wadteigh . . 145 

Life (A Chapter in Real) 541 

Literature and Art 89, 183, 279, 375, 470, 567 

Lora: A Pastoral — Paul Past nor . 56, 109,213,331,423,554 
Louis XIV. and the Telescope — Guy Ainslee ..... 272 

Love (The Flight of )—Theo.B. W. 318 

Lullabies (Folk) — Evelyn Carrington 252 

Magnetism (Some Experiments in) — Charles T. Jerome 267 
Maternity (Aspects of) — Thomas S. Sozinshey, M.D., 

Ph.D 441 

Mott fLucretia) — Elizabeth Oakes Smith 234 

Municn (At) in 1880— By a Tourist 299 

Music (Chit-Chat on Modern)— Musicus 64 

Needlework (Art) — Annie M. Harper 41, 136 

Offenbach, the Composer — Paul Mendelssohn .... 35 

Parallax — C. H Foster 336 

Pavilion (The) on the Links— R. L. S. 25 

Plants (My)— Theo. B. Williams 457 

Prentice (George D.)— JF. //. Perrin 57 

Poems (Tennyson's) ill 

Pot-Pourri 93, 190, 286, 382, 480, 574 

Roses (The Queen's) — George Bancroft Griffith . . . 301 

Roses (Christmas) — Ella F. Mosby 17 

Saint (A Latter-Day)— Emily F Wheeler 69 

Schuylkill (Up the)— A. G. Feather 385 

Shoe (A High-Heeled)— Major Arthur Griffith . . . 121 
Shoe (A Wonderful Wooden) — Hart Ayrault . . . .361 

Snow-Bird (The) — Dudley Digges, Esq 176 

Somerville (Something about Mary) — M.H.Ford. . .156 
Sparrow (The) in the Cannon — Rev. Charles Wheeler 

Denison 82 

Stanton (Secretary) and the Pretty Virginian — James 

Clement Ambrose 446 

Surfaces (Smooth) — Horace Cox 66 

Talk (Table) 86, 180, 277, 373, 467, 564 

Thackeray as a Poet 517 

Topics (Current) 83,177,273,369,465,561 

Valley— Sarah Winter Kellogg 257 

Vesuvius (A Visit to) — M. Y. Safford 223 

Virginia (Through the Heart of) — G. S. S. Richards . 193 

Watcher (The)— Harriet N. Smith 16 

Wife (The) at Havre— Oscar Fay Smith 430 

Winter (A Song of )— J. H. Temple 24 

Winter (In) Time—//. F G 144 

Year (Farewell to the)— Clara B. Heath 40 


" All Aboard" 97 

Allegorical — Christmas Roses 17 

Allegorical — Farewell to the Year 40 

Allegorical — June 504 

Allegorical — " Don't you think, Captain Douglas, we 

ought to forgive" 21 

Allegorical— How Two "kept the Sabbath" 104 

Allegorical— " In knee-deep bath sedate" 393 

Allegorical — " I will refuse as you did, because I had 

long ago forgiven you" 23 

Allegorical — " She was hiding away in the grove" . . . 265 
Allegorical — " The birch for shaftes ; the sallow for the 



Allegorical — "The builder-oake, sole king of forests 

all" 481 

Allegorical — " The castled towers of Wartburg" . . 302 


Sack ( Infant's Crochet)— Fig. 35 462 

Sack (Lace for Crochet) — Fig. 36 462 

Satchel (Embroidery and Needlework) — Fig. 17 . . .139 

Scene (A Harvest) on the Virginia Midland 205 

Scene (A Familiar) by the Wayside 202 

Shaft (The Pottsville) 403 

Shawl-Bag, Open — Fig. 2 556 

Shawl-Bag with Embroidery — Fig. 3 555 

Shawl-Bag with Strap — Fig. 1 554 

Shawl (Knit)— Fig. 33 461 

Shawmont 389 

" Schuil-kill of our Forefathers" (The) 387 

Schuylkill (The) above Port Clinton 402 

Sketching under Difficulties 292 

Slipper Pattern — Fig. 23 368 

Snow-Bird (The) 176 

Stove (Rococo) in Majolica 524 

Stream (The Trout) 105 

Sycamore (A Giant) Entwined with Vines 295 

Sycamore Growing out of the Cellar of the Blenncr- 

hasset Mansion 289 

Table-Cover (Border of Drawn- Work for) 218 

Table-Cover (Border for) 218 

Table (Cover for) 220 

Table-Cover (Design for Corner of ) 219 

Taboret {Appliqui Embroidery) — Fig. 20 140 

Tailpiece 408 

Tower (Signal) 392 

Trunk with Embroidered Strips — Fig. 8 557 

1 Tunnel and Bridge near Phoenixville 391 

J University (The) of Southern California 15 

\ University (The) of Virginia 207 

I Valley (A Scene in the Upper) 201 

1 Valley Forge 390 

J Walnut (The Stately) 486 

■! War (A Vestige of the) 200 

, Washington (The Tomb of) 197 

1 Water- Lilies in an Eddy on the Island 296 

j Wissahickon . . . m 388 

I Work-Basket with Colored Embroidery — Fig. 12 . . . 559 

1 Work-Basket with Embroider)- 43 

; Work-Stand with Embroidered lambrequin 42 

j Yacca (The) 495 

| Yew (The English) . . / 497 


(The figures indicate where the contributions may be found.) 

Adams (Charlotte), 132. 
Adams (Oscar Fay), 430. 
Ainslee (Guy), 108, 272. 
Ambrose (Tames Clement), 97, 446. 
Author (the) of " The First Violin," 

237. 305. 409» 5°5- 
Ayrault (Hart), 361,537. 

Basset (A. L.), 149. 

Benedict (Anna M.), 3 J 9» 4^4* 

Carrington (Evelyn), 252. 

Clifford (Josephine), I. 

Cox (Horace), 66. 

Denison (Rev. Chas. Wheeler), 82. 

Digges (Dudley), Esq., 176. 

Doubleday (W. N.), 423. 

Duganne (A. J. H.), 168. 

Feather (A. G.), 385. 

Ford (Marian), 165, 214, 363, 458, 

555- • 

Ford (Marian H.), 53, 156. 

Foster (C. H.), 536. 

G. (H. F.), 144. 

Griffith t( George Bancroft), 144, 301, 

Griffith (Major Arthur), 121. 
Hall (Alice C), 289. 
Harper (Annie M.), 41, 136. 
Heath (Clara B.), 40. 
Herbert (Helen), 544. 
Hiestand (Eleanor Moore), 521. 
Houghton (Louise Seymour), 153. 
Hungerford (James), 152. 
Ingersoll (Ernest), 159. 
Jerome (Charles T.), 267. 
Kellogg (Sarah Winter), 257. 
Maskell (A. E. C), 169. 
Mendelssohn (Paul), 35. 
Mosby (Ella F.), 17, 172, 350. 
Musicus, 64. 
Myers (Robert C), 73. 
Pastnor (Paul), 56, 109, 213, 331, 423, 


Perrin (W. H.), 57. 

Putnam (Greyl), 340, 438. 

R. (G. S. S.), 77. 

Richards (G. S. S.), 193, 356. 

S. (R. L.), 25. 

Safford (M. Y.), 223. 

Shelton (Keziah), 225, 332, 449, 545. 

Shillaber (B. P.), 501. 

Smith (Elizabeth Oakes), 234. 

Smith (Harriet N.), 16. 

Sozinskey (T. S.), M.D., Ph.D., 441, 

Stone (William L.), 498. 

Temple (J. H.), 24. 

Tourist, 299. 

W. (C. R.), 448. 

W. (Theo. B.), 318. 

Wadleigh (Frances E.), 145. 

Wayne (Charles Stokes), 49. 

Wheeler (Emily F. ), 69, 529. 

Williams (Charles R.), 504. 

Williams (Theo. B.), 457. 





America (Was) Known to the Ancients? — George R. 

Howell 17 

Author (The) of " Bitter Sweet"— A. J. H. Duganne . 495 

Azores (Among the) — Mrs. S. E. Dawes 289 

Baronet (The First American) — Fred Myron Colby . . 234 

Bread (The) we Eat — Magnus Dwight 450 

Captain (How the) Came In — Robert C. Myers .... 69 
Carlisle (Literary Work of Thomas) — Rosalie A. Col- 
lins 328 

Christmas (A) Gift — M. J. F. 495 

Church (Late to)— May W. Mills 168 

Church (A Famous Old)—//. W. French 481 

Ciover (Through the) — J. Russell Fisher 272 

Cold? (What is a)— A Medical Man 37 

Collyer (Robert) — J. Clement Ambrose 115 

Comparisons — Addison F. Browne 556 

Crossgrains (The) and Straightgrains — yames Clement 

Ambrose 262 

Daisies — Dora Reade Goodale 160 

Daydawn — A. Af. M. 499 

Dream (The Good Deacon's)— Titus Tuttle 303 

Dumas as a Hero — Hart Ayrault 309 

Electricity — The Force of the Future — John A, Bower. 399 

Explosive (A Rebel)— M. S. D 125 

Fame— W. H S 24 

Fancy- Work (Novelties in) — Marian Ford. 75, 169,265, 557 

Flint and Sand — Archie A. Dubois 24 1 

Fruit (Wild)— yam* Shaw 406 

Furies (The)— Schiller 423 

Ghosts (An Experience with Modern) — E. P. B . 340, 542 

Glen (The Woodland)— S. G. Green 552 

Harte (Francis Bret)— M. S. V. De V 306 

Home and Society 90, 186, 282, 473, 377, 570 

Homes (Artistic) — II. Cox 142 

Homes (Decoration of Cottage)— H. Cox 257 

Home (The Franklin) — A. G. Morse 50 

Kith and Kin— The Author of " The First 

Violin" 25, 129,217, 313,409, 5°5 

Late — B, A. Goodridge 264 

Lake Drummond (Lost on) — An Adventure in the 

Dismal Swamp— Frank II. Taylor 333 

Literature and Art 87, 182, 278, 374, 468, 565 

Lora — A Pastoral — Paul Pastnor . . . .16,120,361,405 

Lost and Found — O. II. C 464 

Love's Jealousy — Mosse Macdonald 424 

Man (A) Without a Country . 547 

Maona (The Legend of) — Elizabeth Oakes Smith . .165 

Mary Knows — G. B. G 339 

Message from the Dead — C. B 557 

Million (Only a) — Charles Gibbon 57 

Mirror (Seth Marvin's) — Lucy M. Blinn 238 

Mormons (The) and the President — Hon. E. A Thomas. 298 
Moselle (Along the) and Rhine — George Bancroft Grif 

fi* 385 

Music (The Charms of) — Archie A. Dubois 460 

New Mexico (New and Old) — Columbus Moise . . .193 

«• Nicht Versteh"— Egbert L. Bangs 398 

Notes (Marriage) — Sarah Winter Kellogg 425 

On, On!— Titus Tuttle 178 

Optimist (The Angling) — Frank H. Stauffer 367 

" Out of Her Sphere" — Amanda B Harris 533 

Papers (The Daily) — Eleanor Moore Hiestand . . . .121 
Pictures (Autumnal) — George Bancroft Griffith . . . 494 

Pot-Pourri 93, 190, 286, 477, 381, 575 

Problem (A) for Solution — F. F. Foster 161 

Ramble (A Midsummer) — Maurice M Howard ... 97 
Retribution (A Strange) — C. H. Ambers. . ...351,441 
Romance (A) of Two Summers — Alice Winship . . . 206 

Roses (Among the) — Guy Ainslee < . 41 

Seashore (A Day at the) — Leigh North 22 

Silk and Silk Culture — A. G. Feather 147 

Singing — Henry Burton 114 

Snow (Under The) — A. L. Basset 553 

Stanley (Dean)— R. H S> 437 

State (The) and the Railway — James Clement Ambrose .517 

Sunflower (A) — M. B 216 

Swamp (Through the Dismal) — Alexander Hunter . . 1 

Talk (Table) 85,275 

Topics (Current) 83, 179, 273, 370, 465, 562 

Twilight— Z. O. E # 205 

Unattained — Elizabeth Oakes Smith * . . . 332 

Victa (Victrix) — F, F. Foster 253 

Wages—/: C. A 369 

Widow (How I Captured the) — Magnus Dwight . . .176 
Ware (Satsuma and Kioto) — Eleanor Moore Hiestand . 363 

Withered— J. M. E. Saxby 302 

Worm (The Silk) and how it is Raised — Nellie Lincoln 

Rossiter 157 

World (Another) Down Here — W. M. Williams . . . 526 


Acequia (An) .' 204 

Allegorical — Among the Roses 43 

Allegorical — " The Sweetest Flower" 45 

Allegorical — Fishing Scene 241 

Allegorical — Through the Clover 272 

Allegorical — " There was roast beef and mutton" . . . 303 
Allegorical — " Oh, spare me, good sprite !" 304 

Allegorical — " He thought that he saw a real spook on 

a broom!" 304 

Allegorical — Before the Spell was Broken 305 

Allegorical — The Woodland Glen 552 

Alley (Burro) 200 

Ant (The Red) 528 

Ant-bending 528 



Azorean Characters 296 

Baron (The J 336 

Baron (The) and his Bear 336 

Basket (Waste Paper) Trimmed with Embroidery- 
Fig. 7 268 

Battery (The Galvanic)— Fig. 1 399 

Beggar (The) of Las Vegas 201 

Beilstein 391 

Bell-Ringer (The Colonial) 482 

Bells (Among the) 481 

Bernkastel 395 

Bernkastel (Street Scene in) 396 

Bob, the Guide 4 

Border with Fringe. — Fig. 3 76 

Border Pattern for Fig. 9. — Fig. 10 174 

Border for Fig. 6. — Fig. 5 267 

Border (Embroidered Sachet) 561 

Bottle (A Pekin Pilgrim) 366 

Caldeira (Principal) at the Furnas '. . .290 

Canadian (A Scene on the) 195 

Cafion (A River) 199 

Carapuca (The St. Michael's) 297 

Cart (A Flores) drawn by Cows 289 

Cart (A Donkey) . : 294 

Castle (Marienberg) 393 

Cemetery (The Colonial), Copp's Hill 491 

Cistern (A Nankin Goldfish) 363 

Chair (Richly-carved Wooden) with Embroidery Cush- 
ion. — Fig. 8 80 

Chair-stripe (A Superb). — Fig 13 . . .• 175 

Childhood (Happy) 109 

Christmas Day in a German Home 495 

Chrysalis 155 

Church (Interior of Christ) Boston 483 

College fSwarthmore). — Front View 101 

College (Swarthmore). — Rear View 102 

College (View from Portico of) 103 

Coliyer (Robert) 115 

Cocoonery (A French) 149 

Cocoons 155 

Cover for Work-Table, Colored Embroidery. — Fig. 2. . 75 

Cover (Table).— Fig. 1 169 

Cover (Table).— Fig. 2 170 

Cover I Table) with Cross-stitch Embroidery. — Fig. 6 . . 267 

Cover for Small Fancy Table 559 

Curtain with Cross-Stitch Embroidery and Drawn-Work . 557 
Curtain (Part of Window) with Irish Lace- Work, Drawn- 
work, and Languette Embroidery ....... 558 

Design (Embroidery) for Fig. 6. — Fig. 7 79 

Design for Slippers (Gold- Embroidered). — Fig. 6 . . .171 

Design, in full size, for Fig. 11 175 

District (The Burnt) 5 

Drummond (Lake} 11 

Dwelling (A Lake) 14 

Electro- Magnet (The).— Fig. 2 400 

Embroidery with Appliqui for Fig. 4. — Fig. 5 78 

Embroidery Design. — Fig 3 170 

Embroidery Design. — Fig. 4 170 

Embroidery for a Sofa-Pillow. — Fig. 1. . 265 

Embroidery on Velvet. — Fig. 10 270 

Enkirch (Street Scene in) 397 

Ester of Lenape 105 

Expedition (A "Poler") 337 

Fishes (Tempting the Little) in 

Flint and Sand 243 

Flower-pot (A Miaco) 365 

Foot-Pillow. — Fig. 4 77 

Foot- Warmer (Embroidered) 560 

Force (Electric) from the Falls of Niagara. — Fig. 5. . . 403 

Frame. — Fig. 2 157 

Fruit(Wild) 407 

Glass (Ornamented Cut) 245 

Glass (Fine Cut) 248 

Grafenberg (Ruins of) 387 

Grain (The Golden) 106 

Harte (Francis Bret) 307 

Harvesters (The) 97 

Helix (A) of Wire. — Fig. 3 401 

Holland (Dr. Josiah Gilbert) 494 

Hotel (The Civil Rights') 334 

Hotel (The Landlord of the) 334 

House (Old) at Deep Creek 338 

Incidents (Swamp Border) 2 

Ink-Blotter with Renaissance Embtoidery. — Fig. 9. . . 80 

Insects (Nests of Adult) 531 

Instrument for holding the Gold Thread. — Fig. 7. . . .172 

Island of Fayal from Pico 290 

Islanders (A Type of the) 297 

Jar (A) and Cover in Hizer Porcelain 366 

Joe (Uncle) 333 

Kochem (On the Moselle) 385 

Lad (A New Mexican) 203 

Lady (The) of the Lake . 337 

Lenape, the Prize Bull 105 

Lions (Ant) 527 

Lost and Found 464 

Machine (Clark's). — Fig. 4 402 

Moselle (The Valley of the) 389 

Moths, Male and Female. # 155 

Music — Birds in the Night 462 

Nature's Offerings 424 

Nave and Organ, as Decorated for April 18, 1875 • • • 4^4 

Paper (Perforated). — Fig. 3 158 

Pattern (Enlarged) of Fig. 8. — Fig. 9 269 

Pen-wiper, Embroidered. — Fig. 1 75 

Petticoat (Knitted) for Little Girls.— Fig. 5 170 

Politician (A Mora) 202 

Pot (A Marine-blue and White Round) and Cover for 

Rose-leaves 365 

Renaissance Embroidery (Half of) for Fig. 9. — Fig. 10 . 80 

Residence of Samuel J. Sharpless, Esq 104 

Reticule with Embroidery. — Fig. 6 77 

Revere (The Pursuit of Paul) 489 

Rio Pecos (On the) 196 

Rio del Norte (The) 197 

Rose (The) of Sharon 41 

Ruins (Aztec) 193 

School (State Normal), Westchester, Pa 107 

Scythe, Sickle, and Jug no 

Sea (At) 289 

Section (Enlarged Quarter) of Fig. 1. — Fig. 4 266 

Service (Communion) Arranged on the Altar Table . . 487 

Shelter (A Lumberman's) 9 

Silk- Worm (Chart showing the Development of the) . .152 
Si Ik- Worms (Apparatus for Management of). — Fig. I. .157 

Sketch (A Wayside) 108 

Sofa-pillow. — Fig. 8 173 

Spider (Garden) 532 

" Stalwart," Prince of the South Downs 105 

Stanley (Arthur Penrhyn) 437 

Stitch (Gobelin).— Fig. 3 * .... 265 

Stitch (Cross).— Fig. 2 265 

Swamp (Dismal) I 

Swamp (Border of the) 8 

Tapestry- Work for Chairs, Cushions, etc. — Fig. 1 1 . . . 81 

Teamster (A) of Las Vegas 202 

Tidy in Cross-Stitch Embroidery. — Fig. 1 1 1 74 

Tomb (The Mather) Copp's Hill 485 

Tomb (The Clark) 492 

Tombstone (The Oldest) in America 493 

Towel with Drawn-Work and Cross-Stitch Embroidery — 

Fig. 8 268 

VII 1 


University (Pennsylvania) — Collegiate and Scientific 

Department 98 

University (Pennsylvania) Library Building 99 

University (Lincoln) near Oxford, Pa 112 

Vase (Blue and White Glass) 246 

Vase (A Cut Crystal) 247 

Vase f A Soft Porcelain) 363 

Vase (A Nankin) and Cover 364 

Vase (A Mandarin) 364 

Vase ( A Chinese Gray Crackle) 365 

Vase (A Honan) with Elephant Head for Handle. . . 365 

Vase (A Mandarin) Richly Decorated . . . 365 

Vase (A Kioto), Blue Ground, etc . 365 

Vase (A Quaint Nankin Blue and White) 365 

Vase (An Awaji), Brilliant Green, furple, and White 

" Splash" Glaze 365 

Vase (A Chinese), White Ground and Penciled Draw- 
ings 366 

Vase (A Pekin) with Colored Enamel Painting .... 366 

Vase (A Pekin) Covered with Ruby Glaze 366 

Vase (A dark-blue Ousaji) 366 

Vase (A Nankin Gourd- snaped) 366 

Veldenz (Ruin of) 386 

Villa Franca . . , 290 

Vista (A Swamp) 13 

Wagon (The Mail) 335 

Wasp Nest (A Hanging) 529 

Wasp Nest (Interior of Hanging) 530 

Water- Carriers of Pico 293 

Water-Carrier and Milkman in Fayal 295 

Watermelons (Stealing) 7 

West (Benjamin) 100 

Willow (The Napoleon) Copp's Hill 485 

Woman (The Old Fruit) 291 

Women in Cloaks in the Streets of Ponta Delgada. . . 292 
Work-Basket with Colored Embroidery. — Fig. 9. . . .173 


(The figures indicate where the contributions may be found.) 

A. (F. C), 369. 
Ambers (C. H.), 351, 441. 
Ambrose (J. Clement), 115, 262, 517. 
Ainslee (Guy), 41. 

Author (The) of " The First Violin," 

25, 129, 217, 313, 409, 505. 
Ayrault (Hart), 309. 

B. (E. P.), 340, 542. 
B. (M.), 216. 

B. (C), 55*- 

Bangs (Egbert L.), 398. 
Bassett (A. L.), 553. 
Blinn (Lucy M.), 238. 
Bower (John A.), 399. 
Browne (Addison F.), 556. 
Burton (Henry), 114. 

C. (O. H.), 464. 

Colby (Fred Myron), 234. 
Cox (H.), 142, 257. 
Collins (Rosalie A.), 328. 

D. (M. S.),.I25. 
Dawes (Mrs. S. E.), 289. 

De V. (M. S. V.), 306. 
Du Bois (Archie A.), 241, 460. 
Duganne (A. J. H.), 494. 
Dwight (Magnus), 176, 450. 

E. (Z. O.l, 205. 

F. (M. J.), 49. 
Feather (A. G.), 147. 
Fisher (J. Russell), 272. 

Ford (Marian), 75, 169, 265, 557. 
Foster (F. F.), 161, 253. 
French (H. W.), 481. 

G. (G. B.), 339. 
Gibbon (Charles), 57. 
Goodale (Dora Reade), 160. 
Goodridge (B. A.), 264. 
Green (S. G.), 552. 

Griffith (George Bancroft), 385, 494. 
Harris (Amanda B.), 533. 
Hiestand (Eleanor Moore), 121, 363. 
Howard (Maurice M.), 97. 
Howell (George R.), 17. 
Hunter 1 Alexander), I. 

Kellogg (Sarah Winter), 425. 
Macdonald (Mosse), 424. 
M. (A. M.), 499. 
•Mills (May W.) f 168. 
MoTse (Columbus), 193. 
Morse (A. G.), 50. 
Myers (Robert C.), 69. 
North (Leigh), 22. 
Pastnor (Paul), 16, 120, 361, 405. 
Rossiter (Nellie Lincoln), 157. 

S. (R. H.), 437. 

;w. h.), 24. 

Saxby (J. M. E.), 302. 

Schiller, 423. 

Shaw (James), 406. 

Smith (Elizabeth Oakes), 165, 332. 

Stauffer (Frank H.), 367. 

Thomas (E. A.), 298. 

Tuttle (Titus), 178, 303. 

Williams (W. M.), 526. 

Winship (Alice), 206. 

Potter's American Monthly. 



By Josephine Clifford. 

" Los Angeles !" I scent the fragrance of the 
orange in the air as I hear the words, and on the , 
instant my soul is borne to where the tinkling of 
the mission-bells, perched high on dusk-white, | 
crumbling walls, floats faintly over olive-grove and 
vine-clad field. 

The place has wonderful "drawing" qualities; 
who goes there once will go again, though until 
Vol. XVI.— i 

of late years the getting there could hardly be 
classed among the pleasures of life. It was a 
weary ride from San Francisco to Los Angeles by 
stage; and the journey by water was still more 
tiresome, to me at least, and had to be finished 
by twenty-five miles of land-travel from the land- 
ing at San Pedro to the city. It is different now; 
the steam-cars whisk us over the whole distance, 


by land about four hundred and eighty miles, in 
scant twenty hours' time; and when the conduc- 

tor's shrill cry an- 
nounces their arrival 
in Los Angeles, those 
who have formerly 
made the trip by 
stage or steamer can" 
hardly realize that 
this is all. 

I.o- Angeles is one 
of the few places in 
California for which 
I claim a classic past, 
on the score -of its re- 
presenting all there 
is ancient or antique 
in this new land 'of 
ours, being one of 
thethreeoriginal free 
towns or pueblos 
established under 
Spanish reign. San 
Jose and Banciforte 
share the honors with 
it j but Los Angeles 
was established first 
of the ihre. Alter 
all this flourish, how- 
ever, I mustarknowl- 
edgethat this boasted 
antiquity does not 
date back farther 
than 1770, for we 
cannot learn of a 

to that introduced by 
the Franciscan friars 

of mission building 

The elements com- 
posing this first set- 

and "American" the 
word sounds in this 
connection ! — were 
not all classic, by 
any means. The re- 
tired soldiers of the 
military presidios es- 
tablished for the pro- 
lection of the mis- 
sions, who generally married among the Indian 
mission converts, the few adventurers and strag- 


glcrs who happened along, and later, the Spanish 
families that were brought from Mexico by Cap- 
tain Juan Bautesta Anza in 1776, 
formed the nuclei of these towns, 
which in two cases have expanded 
into thrifty cities, in one instance 
dropped almost entirely out of ex- 
istence; for Branciforte is only re- 
membered by the few scattered ruins 
to be seen in the neighborhood uf 
Santa Cruz. Our bright particular 
city was named in honor of the 
Queen of the Angels — Pueblo tie la 
A'eina de las Angeles was tlie style and 
title; the present generation is satis- 
fied to call it simply the City of 
Angels, and I think -the most of 
them have made good use of their 

street makes 
its way on. 


In 1 

humble opinion the pen 

r describe I,os Angeles than 

pencil. At least. I have 

can bett 
brush o 

never yet seen a representation, on 
canvas or from the photographer's 
camera,' that did justice 10 this fairest 
city of the South. They give yon 
the square, hard lines of the square. 
flat roofs of the houses and siore- 
Imildings in the dusty, close-built 
portion of the town, without one 
softening feature, and completely 
hiding the lovely flower-wreathed 
villas that grace the spot. The effect 
of the wide plain on the east, bloom- 
ing in verdure; the grand, dark 
mountain to the northwest, anil the 
chain of low hills, forever veiled in 
the soft, dreamy haze peculiar to all 
these mountains of the South, is 
altogether lost in the pictures, and 
the prominence which the board- 
fences and dust-flooded streets as- 
sume is anything but pleasing to 
the eye. 

By taking a look at the main 
thoroughfare of the city, however, 
we will find that even in its busi- 
ness portion the place is quite hand- 
some. The streets do not all run at right 
nor are they all straight, except, |n.-rhaps, 
more recent American addition. When 


marks, together with it, the boundary- line be- 
tween the Spanish and the American -built portion 

of the town. Not that the Spanish people live 
exclusively in that quarter; it is the original 
Spanish settlement, though many of the better 
class of Spaniards and Mexicans have built up line 
residences in the new American city, leaving the 
old quarters mostly to the lower classes. Little, 
squat adobe casas crowd up the narrow streets in 
"Sonora," looking old without looking vener- 
able, halt in ruins, but without a shadow of ro- 
mance about them. That has all fled out toward 
the Mission, as we shall see later, 

One of the public schools is. situated here, 
somewhere among the narrow streets and shabby 
houses ; but it looks almost as much out of place 
as one of the cheap American bar-rooms estab- 
lished under the tile roof of some dilapidated 
casa, which still bears lingering -traces of its 
former grandeur. Once out of these ugly streets, 
and pleasant green fields smile at us; even a 
feathery palm or two tries to coax us into a hasty 
visit ; but we are not ready to go to the country 
yet. We have all the modern part of the city to 
survey, and will begin at the head of Main street, 
where the Pico House stands. 

Even along the line of this broad, handsome 
street, where there are stately, elegant structures 
of brick and stone. — mercantile houses, bank- 
buildings, and balconied hotels, — the walls of a 
low, solid adobe now and then breaks up the rows 
of taller buildings, and not always to the improve- 

ment of the looks of the street. I like an adobe 
house, — yes, in its place, which is not on the prin- 
cipal business street of a city in Americanized 
California. There is a slumbrous, peaceful, stand- 
still air about it that is delightfully refreshing 
to behold when the casa stands on an open 
plain, or under the shade of the fig or the olive 
tree; but in the midst of a bustling American 
I town it is just as much out of its natural sphere 
as a Spanish don from one of the large tatile- 
ranches would be among the bulls and the bears 
of the San Francisco fnining-stock boards. 

Vehicles of all descriptions fill the street, and 
in some places form an almost unbroken line in 
front of the stores where they are " hitched," 
while their owners are attending to their business 
or pursuing their pleasure. The country imme- 
diately about Los Angeles is quite thickly settled, 
and these vehicles corp prise every style of turnout, 
from the costly, airy American barouche, drawn 
by blooded, high-priced stock, down to the lum- 
bering Mexican tare/a, with its vicious, rough- 
coated mustang. By the side of the slow-rolling 

street-car we see a couple of Spaniards, with 
broad-brimmed hats, saucer-sized spurs, and much- 


bebuttoncd cakones, r 
foam -cove red steeds,— 

inted high on snorting, for the next they are out of sight, like a flash, 
e them but one moment, , around the corner, on their way to the next street, 


where there are no cars, and 
left of (lie Los Angeles 

vhere thei 
ity y, 

dames, arrayed in all the gorgeousness that wealth 
command and good lasie will allow of, are 

Among the pedestrians we notice the same jostled bv dark-faced, dark-eyed women with 
diversity of kind and quality. Dainty, lily-faced . black rebozo drawn close about the head and 


shoulders. Altogether, the aristocratic element , directly out to the race-course. Not that we 
predominates in and about Los Angeles; it has want to see the races (there are none to-day), 
always been so, I be- 
lieve, even in the days 
when Fremont here 
lived his short life of 
gubernatorial glory 

The better class of 
Spanish one meets here 
in society are most 
charming people; culti- 
vated, gentle of de- 
meanor; the women fair 
as the day, the men 
hardly less handsome. 

[f we continue our 
walk now along Main 
street, and leave the 
business portion of it 
behind us, we will soon 
reach the new Catholic 
cathedral, a really fine 
structure, and looking 
vast and grand in con* 
trast with the little old 
Spanish church by the 
Plaza. The handsome 
new Methodist church 
stands on the street 
just above this, and 


tions have also tasteful 
places of worship. A 
piece farther down from 
the cathedral we come 
upon the elegant \illa- 
residence of ex-Gov- 
ernor Downy; and from 
here out we see houses 
and grounds that would 
add to the beauty of 
any city of the older 
States, and which fill 
one' with wonder at the 
strides this place has 
made in the last de- 

The day is so fine 
that we cannot possibly 

50 we will hail the street-car, wh 


almost buried in flowers and vines. The trees start these hedges and carry the young trees 

are nol very tall generally, except where a sway- through the long; dry seasons. This is furnished 

ing eucalyptus or slender poplar rises high above by zanjas, ditches about two feet wide and deep, 

groves of orange-trees, and limes and lemons which draw on the Los Angeles River for their 

growing almost as high as oranges. Oleanders supply, 

and pomegranates, figs and peaches, apples and These zanjas are quite picturesque, and when 

pears grow and thrive alike; and though there 
are no such large orchards right here as we shall 
find out at the Mission directly, we see enough to 
convince us that almost anything counted useful 
nr beautiful in the civilized world can be grown in 
this spot. Another charming feature are the hedges 
and green fences. Willow saplings have been set 
out into the ground and interlaced, and will soon 
form miles of shady avenues. Of course it re- 
quired water, and an abundant supply of it, to 

they are well kept lend an additional charm to 
the place, though in former years there was much 
irregularity in their management, and much dis- 
turbance over unequal division of the precious 
fluid. The first time I visited Los Angeles I re- 
member being startled at the break fast- table by 
the youngest daughter of the house rushing in and 
electrifying her father with the intelligence that 
"all their water had been stolen in the night, and 
not a drop left oh the whole place!" 1 sat in 


open-mouthed wonder till the information was ing the zanjas to irrigate the land for twelve or 
volunteered that a certain sum was paid for flood- i twenty-four hours, as the bargain chanced to be , 



and it sometimes happened, as in this 
that after the family had retired to rest, some un- 
scrupulous neighbor, aware of the agreement, would 
go, with spade and hoe, and turn the stream on to 
his own premises for the night. The arrangements 

The Wild Cactus. 

are different now, I believe, for the water seems to 
flow constantly in the zanjas. 

But the handsome places are not all massed at 
this end of the city ; there is the Sisters' convent, 
for instance,— on the other side of town, one or 
two blocks below Main street, — that is worth a 
visit alone. How these fragile, meek-eyed women 
work and manage and plan 1 A noble edifice, 
their school, with ample gardens, shady walks, 
and sunny flower-parterres; trees to please the eye, 

i and supply the table of their charges with choice 
fruits, and in the distance a grand old palm-tree, 
i waving an eternal benediction oyer house and 

Nearer to the Los Angeles River are orange 
orchards again, and 
vineyards with fig trees 
and a few pomegran- 
ates sprinkled in be- 
tween. Cotton- woods, 
loo, grow in clumps 
about this section, 
which, though quite 
lively, has not the Ame- 
rican air that breathes 
through the principal 
streets. On the con- 
trary, a very strong 
breath of the "Father- 
land" greeted me here 
one day. Around sight- 
seeing, of course every 
gate and doorway of 
this hospitable city was 
Open to me, so that I 
strayed, one pleasant 
afternoon, into a garden 
where I saw a man pru- 
ning or grafting orange- 
trees. There was a de- 
cidedly southern, not 
to say tropical, appear- 
ance about the place, — 
pomegranates, figs, pas- 
s : on-flowets, and the 
smell of the orange- 
blossom everywhere. 
The man was a German, 
and I soon learned that 
this was a kind of plea- 
sure-resort—which I 
fully realized when I beheld seated in the romantic 
shade of jasmine-flower and overhanging orange- 
boughs two stout, hearty Dutch women, with a 
troop of white-headed children, eating stkmUr k&se 
with pumpernickel, and drinking honest German 
lager beer ! 

The romance of thai retreat was destroyed for- 
ever. I returned to the hotel as quickly as possi- 
ble, and sat for an hour gazing down into the 
court-yard, where a fountain in the centre rained 


its silver spray on cuia- lilies ami wait r- plants, vinos adorning the galleries of the upper stories. 
and threw sparkling kiss-hands to the flowers and i II was fully an hour before I eould dream myself 



back into the soft, sunny South, and I have never 
again visited the place where "the groves are of 
olive, of myrtle, and rose," and sckmier-k3se and 
beer are served in its shadow. 
They claim fifteen thousand inhabitants at Los 

Gathbkito Honey. 

Angelas. In this respect I think Los Angeles is 
a little like Chicago, though I know of no St. 
Louis to set up for its rival. Everybody knows 
that it is the largest city of the South, and I really 
think there are over twelve thousand people in it. 
There is not a more busy, rapidly-growing place 
to be found in the State ; it has handsome public 

school -buildings, has just finished the large pa- 
vilion for the use of the southern district fairs, 
has always boasted good hotels, — among which, 
beside the Pico House, are the United States, the 
St. Charles, the Lafayette, — and it certainly has 
every advantage and great 
inducements to offer to set- 
tlers." The climate is de- 
lightful, society good ; and 
for those who would seek 
health and happiness in a 
rural home,, what can be 
more charming than to watch 
the trees and flowers you set 
out with your own hands 
shoot up with almost light- 
ning rapidity, and without 
entailing any of the digging 
and delving that makes farm- 
life a round of drudgery 
in the older States? The 
.Southern Pjcific Railroad 
brings the place in close 
connection with San Fran- 
cisco on the one hand, and 
Arizona, with its vast mining 
and agricultural promises and 
possibilities, on the other. 

A branch of this road ex- 
lends to Wilmington and the 
haibor, and the one depot 
serves the two divisions. The 
Santa Monica, or, more pro- 
perly speaking, the Indepen- 
dence and Los Angeles Rail- 
road, has its own depot, 
as pretentious and stylish as 
that seaside resort itself has 
grown to be. I have never 
yet seen Santa Monica, but 
I can read from the papers 
that it is a place of wonderful 
growth and most romantic 
If any of my readers should contemplate a visit 
to Los Angeles in the near future, let them climb 
the steep hill rising almost opposite the Plaza, and 
not many blocks away from the liveliest part of 
the city. It has been improved so as to afford 
pleasant drives and walks, and when I was last 
there they had promised to have flower-beds. 


rustic seats, and shade trees set out. But whether , vation, till I had invested a large share of avail- 

the rustic seats and the shade-trees ever took root able funds in procuring horse and carriage. 

or not, go there, by all means; the view you Then I drove straightway out to the Mission of 

enjoy will make you forget fatigue and tired feet, . San Gabriel, where the dingy-white church-walls 
and many other ills of life. It made me forget beckoned to me from afar, as to one whose loving 
that I was anything but a Crcesus, and my soul admiration was confidently looked for. And I 
could find no rest, after descending from this ele- threw myself down by the showy altar, and clasped 



my hands on its railing with all the fervor the most 
devout Catholic could exact ; for the old bells 
rang out their faint, sweet chimes just then, and 
through the wide-open door my glance rested on 
graceful, waving palms, and on fig and olive trees 
shading a venerable, half-rimmed casa; and be- 
yond vineyard and wheatfield I saw the slumbering 
mountains, over which hung light, sun -kissed fog- 
clouds from the distant sea. Jbursum corda; Laus 
tibi Deo ! Faithful Catholic or sturdy Protestant, 
it matters not, we all pray to the same God, we 
all bear the same cross, even though many of us 
refuse to press it to our rebellious lips ; and we 
can all afford to pay some little tribute to the 
memory of the zealous men who sleep in the 
church-yard here, who were the pioneers to the 
country, who taught us that it would yield wine 
and corn in abundance, and who unselfishly planted 
palm-trees which they knew would never bear 
fruit for them or their children. For they were 
the " Mission Fathers," the Franciscan Friars of 
the Convent of San Fernando, in the City of 
Mexico, and they knew, when they planted the 
palm, that they would not gather the dates it 
might bear full three decades later. 

The first time I visited the Mission, nearly ten 
years ago, I remember seeing large plots of land, 
dotted with groups of bananas, pomegranates, and 
stately olive-trees swaying over all, looking like a 
grand old garden, as it was, and not a bit of 
fence, not a hut or a house to denote that it had 
ever been tended or claimed since the old padres 
were dispossessed of their places and their power 
(1831). Since then a great change has come 
over the Mission-grounds, and hedges and fences 
for miles around indicate that there is not an acre 
left without a careful master. But just these 
marks and traces of an older cultivation give so 
indescribable a charm to the country. Olives 
(grand, royal trees now) that the Mission Fathers 
watched over tenderly when they set them out a 
hundred years ago; grape-vines which are at 
least the next descendants of those which were 
planted at the same time; pepper-trees, large as 
the oldest willow we can find about Washington 
City, and very much resembling them in graceful- 
ness and general outline — all these shed around 
them a glory that must be seen to be fully under- 

Six miles square was the space covered by the 
original Mission-grounds, and clustered about the 

church, within range of half a mile, are still many 
of the original buildings, some of them in ruins, 
and serving only to lend picturesqueness to the 
scene; others with the tiles still covering the 
adobe walls in a state of preservation to afford 
precarious shelter only in case of need. And 
after having given full credit to the Fathers for 
their energy, their perseverance, and their pious 
zeal, let us not withhold our meed of praise from 
the children of these missions, — the native Indians 
driven to the folds of Christianity, and rendering 
excellent service in plodding and delving, in 
building churches, and tending the cattle-herds 
that each Mission possessed. True, the padres 
could riot succeed in making intelligent citizens 
of them, and after the Mission system had been 
abolished as having outlived its usefulness, the 
Indians proved a scourge to the country till they 
in time had been abolished; yet they were the 
first tillers of the soil, and the monuments they 
built to themselves have not yet crumbled to decay. 

As I said, six miles square was cultivated origi- 
nally by the Mission San Gabriel; and far beyond, 
at the present time, is a bit of earthly paradise 
that has no rival in any part of the world I have 
ever visited. Men such as Rose, Wilson, Bald- 
win, Stoneman, names that need neither prefix 
nor title to be recognized, have proved themselves 
worthy of the heritage the prudent Mission Fathers 
left. Not that the " heritage" is like the Word of 
God preached to sinners, "without money and 
without price": they paid good, big figures for 
every acre they own; but I mean that they im- 
proved understanding^ on what the padres had 

On the ranch of one of these gentlemen is an 
avenue of orange-trees, one-half mile in length, 
aside from his regularly set-out orange-orchard. 
There are pomegranates there that cover acres 
upon acres with their bright scarlet blossoms, and 
furnishing thousands of pounds of fruit for the 
market. Our best English walnuts come from 
San Gabriel, also lemons and limes; and of the 
variety and abundance of grapes there is no end. 
Almost any of the ranches around San Gabriel 
would fill an album with picturesque and interest- 
ing views; and over all these scenes we must fancy 
an ever-blue sky, with a faint haze in the distance, 
that softens the harder outlines of the mountains, 
and hangs like a half- forgot ten dream over the 
harsh reality of dusty roads and mud-wall casas. 


What a charm there is in entering the cool I laden with 

or last year's fruit, lull" l.idden 

shadows of an orange-grove ! The trees, still in dark-green, glossy leaves, are already sending 



forth their promises of next year's crop in snowy, 
fragrant blossoms, while a few forward oranges, 
half grown and obtrusive, attract one's attention 
and curiosity more than the full-ripe fruit which 
one can see any day in the market. 

Of course, orange-groves do not spring sponta- 
neously out of the earth : it takes some labor and 
a great deal of irrigation — for which the San Ga- 
briel River furnishes the means — to make an or- 
ange orchard grow. But after the crop is once 
attained, all the fruit-grower has to do is to box 
them and ship them for market. It is different 
with the grapes he raises, and of which only a 
small share is shipped for sale. The making of 
wine is a lengthy process, a full and interesting 
description of which can be found in "Hitters 
Resources of California," pages 251-258. Some 
of the wine-cellars I have visited ; but must ac- 
knowledge my ignorance of the method of ma- 
nipulating the olive for gaining oil. I remember 
examining the ancient oil-press at one of the 
Missions one day; but the modern institution I 
neglected to interview. Indeed, I think they are 
better pickled, anyhow; when I was in Los An- 
geles last I devoured .bushels of them, just out of 
the brine; and when I went away, there were un- 
told millions of them still left. 

And that reminds me of the honey I tasted 
there. Honey, I believe, is not generally con- 
sidered either grain or fruit, and it sounds odd, 
at first, to hear people speak of a bee-ranch. 
There are several of them in the vicinity of the 
Mission, yielding excellent honey for the table 

and equally good profit for the '•bee-rancher." 
But don't you think " the bee-hive of our fathers" 
was a great deal prettier to look at than the ugly, 
square practical boxes that are ranged in long 
rows over any available part of the ranch ? 

Many of the grapes grown here are dried for 
raisins ; and the figs, too, are sent to market both 
fresh and dried. I don't think the old banana- 
trees bear any at all now, though I hear that pre- 
parations are making to resume the culture of this 
fruit also for the market. • 

To me, I must confess, all these trees, young 
and old, have much more value for the beauty 
they lend to the surroundings than for the product 
they furnish for the market ; and with all my 
fondness for pickled olives and juicy oranges, it 
gives me a pang to see the trees despoiled of their 
fruit. But progress and commerce often clash 
with beauty and romance, and half the charm of 
the Mission of San Gabriel has, in my eyes, de- 
parted, since the track of the Southern Pacific was 
laid within two hundred yards of the old Mission 
church, and the trains come regularly, screaming 
and rushing through the classic shades of these old 
grounds. Still, be where I may, the fragrance of 
the orange scents the air, and the tinkling of the 
mission-bells, perched high on dusk-white, crum- 
bling walls, steals faintly on me when I hear the 
words, " Los Angeles ! M 

[Note. — The illustrations appearing on pages 3, 5, 7, 8, 
9, II, and 15 of this article were kindly furnished us by the 
Messrs. Carter & Rice, of the Semi- Trofic, Los Angeles, both 
gentlemen of culture great enterprise, and business activity. 
-J. C] 


By Harriet N. Smith. 

Behind the blind a woman sits and waits, 
Beautiful her face with hope and joy elate; 
Soft, silken robes fall shimmering to the floor, 
Fair neck and arms bright jewels flashing o'er. 
And in the midnight of her wavy hair 
Nestles one pure while blossom, odorous, rare. 
So waiting happiness, affection, lover, 
Behind the blind impatiently she hovers. 

Another watcher, haggard with affright, 
Crouches by broken pane, and waits to-night. 

Oh, not in hope and joy, but wild with fear, 
A coming step and voice she dreads to hear. 
Raiment of rags ! no jewels costly, rare. 
Clasp shrunken neck or arms ; the fallen hair 
All lustreless. Wide eyes intently peer 
Into the night; a stealthy step so near, 
Crouched in the dark, alone, with bated breath, — 
A swift and cruel blow, — she waited — death. 
Only ten years ! Oh, strange and dreadful thing, 
That they to her such woeful change should bring! 



By Ella F. Mossy. 

" Shure, Mavourneen, it will break my ould Bute-like voice, and a young girl sprang up eagerly 

heart 1" from the deep recess of a window-seat, and came 

•' But what troubles you", Ailie?" said a silvery, forward into the bright circle of firelight that 
Vol. XVI.— a 



illumined the twilight shadows of the rest of the 
large room. 

"It's my boy, Miss Rose; it's Coleen, and 
shure there never was a better boy, nor a warmer- 
hearted one, nor kinder to the childer, though his 
was always severe with him since he was a gossoon, 
not so high as my youngest is now." And the 
untidy, handsome old Irish woman, with her 
weather-beaten face, but quick, bright glance 
and flexible mouth, began to weep. 

"But, Ailie," said the young girl, with a sym- 
pathetic tone, taking one of the old withered 
hands coaxingly in her own plump and dimpled 
one, " you have not told us yet what is the 
matter with Coleen ? I know he is a good boy ; 
he was always so kind to my lame spaniel when 
the big dog at the lodge hurt him, and so good to 
my ponies." 

" I thought Coleen had a tip-top place with 
Captain Douglas, of the Forty-third," said another 
voice behind the heavy red curtain, and Ailie, 
turning around with a quick ejaculation and a 
start, saw a pair of legs emerging from the other 
window-seat, and a frank, high-spirited boy of 
nineteen slowly and lazily made his way to the 
biggest arm-chair in the room. 

" It's Master Harry,' then, my darlint ; and how 
you startled me, looking so tall and grown, and 
me not caring to have a stranger hear my heart's 
trouble. But you are welcome to know it; for 
though it's myself that knows you and Miss Rose 
never had a thought that wasn't kindness to my 
poor boy and me, and blame you I never would, 
it's from your lightheartedness — and may your 
dear hearts never grow heavier ! — that my Coleen 
is going to be turned away." 

" Oh, no, Ailie, it can't be !" exclaimed Rose, 
in distressed surprise. 

"Pshaw! Ailie, that's nonsense," ejaculated 
Harry, angrily. " Captain Douglas doesn't know 
either of us at all, and how could, we have any- 
thing to do with his opinion of Coleen?" 

"But, Mavourneen, it's so, for all that ; for the 
captain is that strict, and never overlooks a care- 
less way or delaying, and the day before yesterday, 
when the snow was lying thick on the ground. 
Captain Douglas sent Coleen to the mail with a 
whole package of letters, and one, Coleen marked 
as he took it, had a curious, foreign-looking stamp, 
in a big square envelope, and 'Coleen,' said the 
captain, speaking quick and hasty-like, ' the mail 

goes out in half an hour; see that you put in these 
letters in time, and don't loiter on the way.' " 

"Oh," cried Rose, her dark eyes growing 
darker with a sudden remembrance, " Harry, we 
met Coleen that very day in the park !" 

"And we stopped him," said Harry, remorse- 
fully. "What a row!" 

" Yes, my darlint ; Miss Rose called to him, so 
Coleen said, to ask about Shelah, and he could 
not but stop to see how beautiful his young lady 
looked on her prancing horse, with her eyes 
dancing under her white plume, and her pretty 
curls blowing in the wind ; and shure I know 
how ye looked, my heart's beauty, as well as if I 
had seen ye myself." 

"But, Ailie," broke in Rose, blushing, "we 
did not stop Coleen more than five minutes, did 
we, Harry?" 

"No, indeed." 

" But you see Coleen dropped the big letter, 
arid he put the others all in the mail, and then he 
sees that is gone, and off the poor boy starts in a 
tremble, for he knew the captain's way, and he 
never finds it till near sunset in the park where 
the snow had been thrown over it by the hoofs of 
the horses, and then it's too late ; and when he 
comes in, looking very pale and scared, ' Where 
have you been ?' says his captain, as quiet as can 
be. ' Have you mailed all the letters I gave you in 
time?' and Coleen up and told him every word, 
and how the big letter was not mailed until after 
the hour, and the captain looked very stern, and 
said, ' You can leave my service to-morrow morn- 
ing.' Then Coleen comes to me in the night, for 
he knows his father will find no excuse for him, 
and says he will have to emigrate to America, and 
it will break my heart, shure, to have the child 
leave me, and he the light of my ould eyes." And 
Ailie's tears flowed afresh. 

"Well, that's hard on a fellow," said Harry, 
ruefully, and the tears started to Rose's eyes as 
she leaned her head on her little hand musingly. 

"Have you seen Captain Douglas, Ailie?" 
began Harry. 

" Oh, I have thought of a way," suddenly ex- 
claimed Rose, her eyes sparkling with delight. 
" Harry, I am going to Mrs. Douglas's party 
Christmas eve, to-morrow night, and I will see 
Captain Douglas myself, and explain that it was 
all my fault, and intercede for Coleen. Oh, it 
will all be right yet, Ailie." 



"Shure it will," said the old nurse, with a look 
of undisguised admiration at the impetuous glow- 
ing voung face. " He can never refuse the rose 
of the world." 

"Now, Ailie, don't flatter her," said Harry, 

"And Master Harry himself says ye are the 
rose of ould Ireland, and shure that's the jewel of 
the wide world !" 

"By the way, Captain Douglas is coming here 
to-night," said Harry. 

" Yes, I know; but only to call on Miss Tracey, 
whom he knew in Edinburgh one or two years 
ago, and I shall not see hjm. Besides, I want 
him to see me at my first party with all the glory 
of my Christmas roses which Frank sent me. 
See, Ailie, aren't they beauties?" And she lifted 
from a Bohemian glass vase some sprays of ex- 
quisite roses and buds, creamy- tinted, with a 
heart of gold and faint pink, from which a deli- 
cious fragrance floated out into the room, and laid 
them against her shining brown hair. "I don't 
think even Captain Douglas could resist me now," 
she said, with a little laugh of merriment at Harry's 
look of superb disdain and disgusted exclamation 
of " the insatiate vanity of girls." 

Just as she spoke, the servant came in with 
lights, and through the door left open for a few 
minutes a handsome young officer was seen stand- 
ing in the hall. He had a full view of Rose, and 
must have heard her boast, she was sure, for a 
smile, half-amused, half-wondering, shone in his 
blue eyes, as she looked, startled, in his face. 
Then the hall-door shut. 

"James, was that Captain Douglas?" she asked, 
in a subdued tone. 

"Yes, miss; he has just been to see Miss 

Rose's feelings were those of the keenest morti- 
fication; but Harry had not overheard her ques- 
tion or the answer, and as his back was turned to 
the door, had not seen the young officer's appear- 
ance, so Rose congratulated herself on having at 
least escaped his teasing, though in her secret 
heart she thought even that could scarcely have 
made her feel more ashamed of her silly vanity. 

Ailie, however, departed with bright hopes; 
and if Harry noticed the sudden meekness of his 
cousin's manner, and the unwonted mildness of 
her replies, he probably ascribed it all to the 
proverbial caprice of women, or as he himself ex- 

pressed it, "Girls are so curious; there's no know- 
ing where you'll find them the next minute." 

When Christmas eve came, Rose was too happy 
with the delicious excitement of her first party, 
the contrast between the drive through the hush 
and whiteness of the soft- falling snow in the 
streets, and the bright lights and fragrance from 
the flower-decorated rooms, the joyous beat of the 
music, and the gay faces around her, to remember 
her past mortification. 

But even at the height of her enjoyment she 
did not forget Ailie's trouble, and stood her 
ground bravely, although a deep flush suffused her 
cheeks when Mrs. Douglas brought her son to 
present him to her young favorite, and he re- 
quested her hand for the next dance. 

"I will give it to you with special pleasure, 
Captain Douglas," she added, with a winning 

He made a low bow of acknowledgement, but 
looked surprised, as well as amused. 

" I have a reason for it, which I will tell you 
after our dance," for the band had begun playing. 

Captain Douglas danced well. He had both 
grace and lightness of movement, and a beautiful 
figure, which appeared to special advantage in 

He was not a handsome man, although his 
flexible features and the light and spirit in his 
eyes often gained him that epithet. In repose 
his face was haughty, and perhaps stern, but his 
friends thought that few countenances expressed 
kindliness, sympathy, interest, more fully than 
his. He was a charming conversationalist, and 
as some of Rose's acquaintances, who were also 
friends of his, came up after the dance ended, 
and fell into a light, sparkling vein of badinage 
and repartee, Rose was delighted by his quick, 
fresh retorts, and the play of expression on his 
speaking features. 

Another partner came to claim Rose, and she 
was sorry to have so sudden an interruption to 
their talk. But this was an old friend of Arthur's, 
her brother, who was in India, and Rose was 
eager to hear how he liked the service there, and 
whether his health stood the climate. 

"Yes, indeed; he looks ten times better than 
the other officers. He has such a bright temper; 
he does not wear himself away in lounging and 
laziness, like the others. By the way, he told me 
that perhaps his little sister might come out to 



him next year. Is that you, or has he another 

"You don't consider me his 'little sister?' " 
said Rose, laughing, and holding erect her pretty 
head. " Yes, Arthur and his wife wanted me this 
year, but," with a sigh, "I did so hate to leave 
my Irish home and kindred, that my Aunt pleaded 
my education in my behalf, and kept me in Dublin 
another year." 

"We hope you will learn to love India when 
you come. Arthur likes the country, and his wife 
is enthusiastic," said her companion, with an ad- 
miring glance at her fresh face and bright eyes. 

"But I have another hope yet. Perhaps there 
may be no one under whose charge to send me 
next year," pursued Rose, earnestly. 

" I am sorry you will think it a disappointment," 
laughed her partner; "but my sister goes out to 
India next year, and Arthur has already asked her 
to act as your chaptrone. ' ' 

Rose's face wore an unfeigned look of regret, 
then it brightened. 

"After all, I will have friends in India, and I 
dare say I shall be very happy ; but, Captain 
Haughton, I warn you I shall always love Ireland 

Another and another waltz succeeded, and Rose 
did not see Captain Douglas again until the latter 
part of the evening, when he came to ask her to 
look at the conservatories with him. 

"Then you can tell me your especial reason, as 
you promised," he said, with a smile. 

The soft splashing of a fountain drew them in 
its direction, and in a shaded corner, hidden by 
orange-trees and roses, Captain Douglas found a 

Rose was a little frightened, but plunged at 
once into her explanation. 

"You have a servant, Captain Douglas, named 
Coleen, whose mother is my old nurse, — my foster- 
mother, as the Irish say, — and I hear that you have 
dismissed him on my account; at least," growing 
more and more confused as Captain Douglas's 
dark eyes were fixed on her in amazement, "it 
was my fault." 

"But how is that possible?" he exclaimed; 
"and what has Coleen to do with your dancing 
with me?" 

"Only this, that I wished to have an oppor- 
tunity to speak to you, and beg you to take Coleen 
back. Oh," said Rose, eagerly, not noticing the 

expression of vexation on her partner's face at this 
frank avowal of her motive, "if you could only 
have seen poor Ailie, his mother, last night 1 She 
is so distressed because his father is so strict with 
Coleen; he won't listen to any excuse or even let 
him come home. She .came to tell me last night 
that it was my calling Coleen to me in the park 
that was the cause of his dropping your Jetter, 
and I promised her to ask you to forgive Coleen ; 
that is what I was saying when the hall-door 
opened last night, and you heard what you must 
have thought a very foolish speech, Captain Doug- 
las," blushing vividly at the remembrance. 

Captain Douglas smiled. "But, Miss Grayson, 
I do not think you are right in blaming yourself 
for Coleen's carelessness. It is very kind of you 
to take such an interest in him, but your explana- 
tion does not exonerate his conduct." 

Rose looked distressed, then suddenly spoke in 
a pleading tone: "But it is his first offense; and, 
on Christmas eve, don't you think, Captain 
Douglas, we ought to forgive in memory of" 
(her voice faltered, and her eyes filled, but she 
went on) "what was done for us once?" 

He looked at her earnestly, with an expression 
almost of reverence in his shining blue eyes. 

She believed he was going to yield, but his first 
words sent a chill to her heart. 

"I cannot forgive Coleen, or reinstate him, 
although you have pleaded his cause so eloquently, 
because " 

Rose sprang to her feet, and the indignant light 
flashed in her eyes. 

"Very well, sir; if you can be so hard, so un- 
merciful, I will plead no more. I hope that others 
may deal more kindly than you have done, with 
your errors. I would rather be Coleen, poor, 
ignorant, careless boy as he is, than you!" And 
as she turned away, ignoring his outstretched 
hand and attempt to speak, she saw Harry ap- 
proaching to tell her it was time to leave, and, 
without another glance at Captain Douglas, she 
put her hand in his arm and left the room. 

The next morning the first voice that greeted 
her ears was Ailie's, begging to be admitted. 

" Poor Ailie ! I have nothing but disappoint- 
ment for her, and on Christmas day !" And she 
looked toward the opening door, dreading to 
break the news to her, but to her great surprise 
Ailie came in beaming with delight. 

"May it be a bright Christmas to my young 


darlint this morn- 
■ ing that she lias 
made so bright to 
my poor heart. Oh, 
but it's myself that 
has a thankful mind 
this day !" 

Rose looked at her 
question in gly. 

" Have you seen 
Coleen to-day?" 

"Yes; by the top 
of the morning he 
came to tell the 
good news. Captain 
Douglas sent him be- 
fore he even went to 
the party to say he 
would forgive him", 
in consideration of 
its being the first 
lime, and he talked 
so kindly that Co- 
leen says he is sure 
he will never forget 
anymore. He would 
go through fire and 
water for his master, 
my boy would." 



not thank me for it, 
Ailie, for it was Cap- 
tain Douglas's own 
kindness; I only saw 
him at thepanyafier 
he had taken Coleen 

But Ailie could 
not be convinced 
that her petted nurs- 
ling had not been 
the real source of 
her happiness, and 
departed showering 
blessings on her 


"How unjust, how 
unkind I wast" 

thought Rose, sorrowfully. "Could I not have 
waited until he finished speaking? He meant to 
tell me he could not forgive Coleen now, because 

he had already done so. 
rude I was !" 

A faint hope remained that she 

Oh, how impatient and 
ght yet see 



Captain Douglas, and apologize for her hasty 
words; but it happened that, although she often 
saw his light form among the riders in the park, 
they were never near enough to speak ; and at the 
different festivities they attended he made no 
attempt to renew their acquaintance. 

The next week Harry told her that his regiment 
had been ordered away. 

"By the way, your acquaintance with Captain 
Douglas did not seem to progress, Rosie, after the 
first ball. How was that?" 

" Probably he did not care to continue it," she 
replied, carelessly, but with a crimson color deep- 
ening in her face. 

"After all your threats of conquest too— and 
your Christmas roses! Oh, Rosie, Rosie, I am 
sorry far you !" And he laughed teasingly. 

It is again the day before Christmas, but Rose 
Grayson stands in a far-off land. No snow falls 
through the hushed air. No wind, cold from the 
frozen rivers and snow-covered fields over which 
it has passed in its long journeying, sweeps whis- 
tling by.- There is the bright glare of Indian 
sunshine, and the atmosphere has been hot and 
heavy all day. From the long veranda of the 
white bungalow her eyes rested on the far range 
of the Ghaut Mountains, ridge rising over ridge 
and peak over peak in picturesque confusion, and 
in the foreground lay green valleys covered with 
vivid rice fields, orchards, and garden-plots, and 
little houses shaded by the tall, fan-like plantain. 
A mist is in the air on the right, and a muffled 
sound as of " many waters" comes from the great 
waterfall that rushes down through tangled tropi- 
cal forest-lands and cliffs bright with myriad- 
colored vines to the plains below. The drowsy 
sound of falling waters carries her thoughts with 
their own monotonous undertone far off, crossing 
the great sea, back to her old home in Ireland. 

Christmas is so peculiarly the season of remem- 
brance, when dear voices, long since hushed, 
vibrate again to our inner hearing with old 
familiar tones, when long-dead faces smile again, 
and footsteps, now quiet forever, seem to ring 
along corridor and stairway. Though all else was 
so different in this foreign land, the white clouds 
that drifted lazily overhead might be alike floating 
in a serene heaven over the distant graves on the 
barren hills of the home country. Rose's aunt 
and one of her little cousins had died in the year 

that intervened between her last Christmas and 
this, and she could almost see in recollection the 
still churchyard, and hear the solemn but soothing 
sound of the church-bells mingling with the actual 
roar of the near waters, when her reverie was* 
broken by a soft touch of a hand on her arm, and 
Leonora, Arthur's wife, spoke gently: 

"You must not grow homesick, Rose, in 
Arthur's house. You have only been here a little 
while yet, but next Christmas I am sure you will 
love this beautiful country as we do." 

"Oh, yes," said Rose, smiling brightly, "I 
like it already, and, of course, I am happy in 
being with Arthur and you." 

"I believe you have met most of the guests 
who will be here to-morrow to keep a ' Merry 
Christmas' with us; but the most delightful of all 
comes this evening to dinner with Arthur. He is 
a great friend of ours, although he has only been 
in India six months, and is a hero among us all for 

his behavior in the K Pass. If it had not 

been for his gallantry on that day, Arthur says, 
very few would have escaped alive." And the 
young wife's eyes darkened at the thought. 

"But who is he?" asked Rose. 

"Did I not tell you? Yonder he is now, with 
Arthur. Captain Douglas, of the Forty-third." 

Rose's cheeks gained a sudden accession of 
color as the group of gentlemen, appearing on 
the winding road, approached the veranda. Cap- 
tain Douglas made no remark on their previous 
acquaintance, but a look of quick recognition in 
his frank blue eyes showed Rose that he had not 

He conducted Rose to dinner, but there were 
several old officers there, and when they began 
discussing the old army experiences and narrated 
dangers in hunting and in lonely jungles or on 
mountain passes, Arthur drew Captain Douglas 
into the general conversation. 

Rose was very glad of an opportunity to be 
silent, and to hear her companion's dramatic 
recital of some odd or humorous adventure which 
delighted the crowd, and to watch the kindling 
fire in his eyes as the talk touched on more serious 

The next day the Christmas morning was cele- 
brated by the house being wreathed with bright- 
colored flowers and tropical sprays of leaves until 
everywhere looked like a scene in fairyland. All 
the Indian servants were radiant with their gifts, 


and adorned themselves with brilliant handker- 
chiefs and ribbons and long earrings. ' 

After breakfast was over, Leonora proposed that 
some of the party should 
walk to the glen of roses, 
where a most exquisite 
view of the great water- 
fall could be obtained. 

" Captain Douglas and 
Rose are new-comers. I 
am sure their energy 
will carry them thither; 
but I suspect only a few 
of us older residents will 
care for climbing," 

The party did prove 
a smalt one, and by the 
time they reached the 
opening of the glen, 
Captain Douglas and 
Rose found they had 
unconsciously distanced 
the rest of the company. 
But the scene that lay 
before their eyes would 
have repaid, them for 
any exertion. Along 
the shadowy path which 
ran down a rocky glen 
grew ferns and brilliant 

floated crowds of bright-] 
winged butre 
Overhead large flocks 
of pigeons were con- 
tinually winging their 
airy flight. Through the 
thick glossy leaves of 
the trees glimpses could 
be seen of the foam 
and spray of the falling 
water, and the wild roses 
blooming in wild luxuri- 
ance over the huge 
boulders were wet with 
the water-drops. 

Rut farther down, in i 
great pool into which the falling water fell lik 
column of white foam with a glistening rain of 
glittering spray around. High up in the shelving 
rocks grew clusters of blood-red flowers far out of 

reach of mortal hands, and in mid air, as the 
slanting sunbeams struck the falling waters. Dow- 
ered and gleamed mystical rainbows.' At first the 

y stillness, spread the ' whole air seemed full of the moaning and lament- 
ing of the waves, broken by a sudden tinkling of 
rejoicing streams below, and the two stood speech- 
less with wonder and admiration. 

" How beautiful it is 1" at last exclaimed Rose, 



in a whisper; "I never dreamed of such a place 
before. It is like a home where the old gods 
might take refuge from their ruined temples.' ' 

"There is but one thing here that looks famil- 
iar/ 1 answered Captain Douglas, with a smile that 
lighted his whole face: "these roses, Christmas 
roses." And he broke off a lovely spray, wet with 
the falling dew, and laid them in her hand. "By 
the way," he continued, looking at her with a 
mixture of embarrassment and pleasure, " do you 
remember Coleen? But I am sure you do not 
forget — he is with me now, and an honest, warm- 
hearted lad he is." 

" Oh, Captain Douglas," interrupted Rose, 
impetuously, "you don't know how sorry I was 
afterward.' ' 

"Were you? I was very sorry," penitently; 
" I ought to have made my meaning clearer at 
once ; but my apparent refusal was only a jest. I 
thought you would have waited " 

" I ought to have done so," said Rose ; " I was 
very rude." 

" No, ic was my fault, and I was so ashamed I 
did not venture to come near you the whole weeTc. 
You had been so very indignant with me, you 
quite made me envy Coleen, I assure you. I 
meant to employ an intercessor in my mother, 
but I was ordered away so soon." 

"And I wanted to apologize all the while," 
said Rose, smiling archly. "There was no need 

for you to fear ; you would have found me very 

" You know you told me that this blessed Christ- 
mas season was a time when all offenses should be 
forgiven and forgotten, when old quarrels should 
end and new friendships begin. Shall I think you 
have pardoned my foolish jest?" 

The very inopportune arrival of Major McLaugh- 
lin and his wife, and two sisters-in-law, with one 
or two subalterns, interrupted the conversation, 
and on their return they were to dress for dinner. 

All the Christmas customs were duly observed, 
although the roast beef, and the whole pig with a 
spray of flowers in its mouth, the plum-pudding en- 
veloped in blue flames, looked oddly, borne in the 
hands of natives, while every window and door was 
open, and large fans were perpetually in motion. 

The company very quickly adjourned to the 
verandas and parlors for music and dancing. 
Captain Douglas found an opportunity to ask for 
an answer to his question while Rose and himself 
were standing together in the shadowy veranda, 
with the music floating through the open shutters. 
She looked up with a lovely smile on her lips and 
in her eyes : 

" I will refuse as you did, because I had long 
ago forgiven you." 

" I need scarcely add that by next Christmas, 
Rose, as Mrs. Douglas, was as contented with her 
new country as Leonora desired. 


By J. H. Temple. 

OlD Winter is here 

With his scanty cheer, 
His generous nights and stingy days; 

And the murky sky 

Looks down from on high, 
Hiding the sun from our hungry gaze. 

Death's ice-clad fingers 

Kill all that lingers 
Of Summer's verdure 'mid Winter's gloom; 

And lake and river, 

Too chill to shiver, 
Lie stiff and stark in their crystal tomb. 

The snow is falling, 

The storm-winds calling 
All Nature to yield her parting break ; 

All life suspended, 

All beauty ended, 
The ghastly landscape lies while in death. 

All Nature is dead, 

All her songsters fled, 
And silence reigns in the forest shade; 

The year is dying, 

The winds are sighing 
His dirge of death; and his grave is made. 

But while he's going, 

Old Time is flowing, 
And the New Year dons its festal robe ; 

When his life dies out, 

It will rise and shout, 
Till its voice rings round the circling globe 

" I'm hurrying on 

Through darkness and dawn, — 
My grave is made ere my life's begun; 

I am thine to use, 

I am thine to lose, — 
Moment by moment I'm lost or won ?' 





By R. L. S. 


I could not help shuddering at the mention of 
the quicksand, but reminded Northmour that our 
enemies had spared me in the wood. 

"Do not flatter yourself/ ' said he. "Then 
you were not in the same boat with the old gentle- 
man ; now you are. It's the floe for all of us, 
mark my words." 

I trembled for your mother ; and just then her 
dear voice was heard calling us to come up-stairs. 
Northmour showed me the way, and, when he had 
reached the landing, knocked at the door of what 
used to be called My Uncle's Bedroom, as the 
founder of the pavilion had designed it especially 
for himself. 

"Come in, Northmour; come in, dear Mr. 
Cassilis," said a voice from within. 

Pushing open the door, Northmour admitted 
me before him into the apartment. As I came in 
I could see your mother slipping out by the side 
door into the study, which had been prepared as 
her bedroom. In the bed, which was drawn back 
against the wall, instead of standing, as I had last 
seen it, boldly across the window, sat, my dear 
children, your grandfather, Bernard Huddlestone, 
the defaulting banker. Little as I had seen of 
him by the shifting light of the lantern on the 
links, I had no difficulty in recognizing him for 
the same. He had a long — long and sallow — 
countenance, surrounded by a long red beard and 
side-whiskers. His broken nose and high cheek- 
bones gave him somewhat the air of a Kalmuck, 
and his light eyes shone with the excitement of a 
high fever. He wore a skull-cap of black silk ; 
a huge Bible lay open before him on the bed, with 
a pair of gold spectacles in the place, and a pile of 
other books lay on the stand by his side. The 
green curtains lent a cadaverous shade to his cheek ; 
and, as he sat propped on pillows, his great stature 
was painfully hunched, and his head protruded 
till it overhung his knees. I believe if your grand- 
father had not died otherwise, he must have fallen 
a victim to consumption in the course of but a 
very few weeks. 

He held out to me a hand, long, thin, and disa- 
greeably hairy. 

"Come in, come in, Mr. Cassilis," said he. 
" Another protector — ahem ! — another protector. 
Always welcome as a friend of my daughter's, 
Mr. Cassilis. How they have rallied about me, 
ray daughter's friends ! May God in heaven 
bless and reward them for it." 

I gave him my hand, of course, because I could 
not help it ; but the sympathy I had been pre- 
pared to feel for your mother's father was imme- 
diately soured by his appearance, and the wheed- 
ling, unreal tones in which he spoke. 

" Cassilis is a good man," said Northmour; 
"worth ten." 

"So I hear," cried Mr. Huddlestone, eagerly; 
"so my girl tells me. Ah, Mr. Cassilis, my sin 
has found me out, you see ! I am very low, very 
low; but I hope equally penitent. These are all 
devotional works," he added, indicating the books 
by which he was surrounded. " We must all come 
to the throne of grace at last, Mr. Cassilis. For 
my part, I come late indeed ; but with unfeigned 
humility, I trust." 

"Fiddle-de-dee!" said Northmour, roughly. 

" No, no, dear Northmour !" cried the banker. 
"You must not say that; you must not try to 
shake me. You forget, my dear, good boy, you 
forget I may be called this very night before my 

His excitement was pitiful to behold ; and I felt 
myself grow indignant with Northmour, whose in- 
fidel opinions I well knew, and heartily dreaded, 
as he continued to taunt the poor sinner out of his 
humor of repentance. 

"Pooh, my dear Huddlestone," said he; "you 
do yourself injustice. You are a man of the world 
inside and out, and were up to all kinds of mis- 
chief before I was born. Your conscience is 
tanned like South American leather — only you 
forgot to tan your liver, and that, if you will be- 
lieve me, is the seat of the annoyance." 

"Rogue, rogue! bad boy!" said Mr. Huddle- 
stone, shaking his finger. " I am no precisian, if 
you come to that; I always hated a precisian; but 
I never lost hold of something better through it 
all. I have been a bad boy, Mr. Cassilis ; I do 
not seek to deny that ; but it was after my wife's 



death, and you know with a widower it's a differ- 
ent thing; sinful — I won't say no; but there is a 

gradation, we shall hope. And talking of that 

Hark!" he broke out suddenly, his hand raised, 
his fingers spread, his face racked with interest 
and terror. "Only the rain, bless God!" he 
added, after a pause, and with indescribable re- 
lief. "Well, as I was saying — ah! yes, North- 
mour, is that girl away?" looking round the 
curtain for your mother — " yes; I just remembered 
a capital one." 

And leaning forward in bed, he told a story of 
a description with which, I am happy to say, I 
have never sullied my lips, and which, in his 
present danger and surrounded as he was with 
religious reading, filled me with indignation and 
disgust. Perhaps, my dear children, you have 
sometimes, when your mother was not by to miti- 
gate my severity, found me narrow and hard in 
discipline ; I must own I have always been a mar- 
tinent in matters of decorum, and I have sometimes 
repented the harshness with which I reproved your 
unhappy grandfather upon this occasion. I will 
not repeat even the drift of what I said ; but I re- 
minded him, perhaps cruelly, of the horrors of his 
situation. Northmour burst out laughing, and cut 
a joke at the expense, as I considered, of politeness, 
decency, and reverence alike. We might readily 
have quarreled then and there ; but Mr. Huddle- 
stone interposed with a severe reproof to North- 
mour for his levity. 

"The boy is right," he said. "I am an un- 
happy sinner, and you but a half friend to encour- 
age me in evil." 

And with great fluency and unction he put up 
a short extempore prayer, at which, coming so 
suddenly after his anecdote, I confess I knew not 
where to look. Then said he: "Let us sing a 
hymn together, Mr. Cassilis. I have one here 
which my mother taught me a great, great many 
years ago, you may imagine. You will find it 
very touching, and quite spiritual." 

"Look here," broke in Northmour; "if this is 
going to become a prayer-meeting, I am off. Sing 
a hymn, indeed ! What next? Go out and take 
a little airing on the beach, I suppose? or in the 
wood, where it's thick, and a man can get near 
enough for the stiletto? I wonder at you, Hud- 
dlestone ! and I wonder at you, too, Cassilis ! Ass 
as you are, you might have better sense than that." 

Roughly as he expressed himself, I could not 

but admit that Northmour's protest was grounded 
upon common sense; and I have, myself, all my 
life long, had little taste for singing hymns except 
in church. I was, therefore, the more willing to 
turn the talk upon the business of the hour. 

"One question, sir," said I to Mr. Huddle- 
stone. "Is it true that you have money with 

He seemed annoyed by the question, but ad- 
mitted with reluctance.that he had a little. 

"Well," I continue3, "it is their money they 
are after, is it not? Why not give it up to them?" 

"Ah!" replied he, shaking his head, "I have 
tried that already, Mr. Cassilis ; and alas ! that it 
should be so, but it is blood they want." 

"Huddlestone, that's a little less than fair," said. 
Northmour. "You should mention that what you 
offered them was upward of two hundred thou- 
sand short. The deficit is worth a reference ; it 
is for what they call a cool sum, Frank. Then, 
you see, the fellows reason in their clear Italian 
way; and it seems to them, as indeed it seems to 
me, that they may just as well have' both while 
they're about it— money and blood together, by 
George, and no more trouble for the extra pleas- 




" Is it in the pavilion ?" I asked. 

"It is; and I wish it were in the bottom of the 
sea instead," said Northmour; and then suddenly, 
" What are you making faces at me for?" he cried 
to Mr. Huddlestone, on whom I had unconsciously 
turned my back. " Do you think Cassilis would 
sell you?" 

Mr. Huddlestone protested that nothing had 
been further from his mind. 

"It is a good thing," retorted Northmour, in 
his ugliest manner. "You might end by weary- 
ing us. What were you going to say?" he added, 
turning to me. 

"I was going to propose an occupation for the 
afternoon," said I. "Let us carry that money 
out, piece by piece, and lay it down before the 
pavilion door. If the Carbonari come, why, it's 
theirs, at any rate." 

"No, no," cried Mr. Huddlestone; "it does 
not, it cannot, belong to them ! It should be 
distributed pro rata among all my creditors." 

"Come, now, Huddlestone," said Northmour, 
"none of that." 

"Well, but my daughter," moaned the wretched 



"Your daughter will do well enough. Here 
are two suitors, Cassilis and I, neither of us beg- 
gars, between whom she has to choose. And as 
for myself, to make an end of arguments, you 
have no right to a farthing, and, unless I'm much 
mistaken, you are going to die." 

It was certainly very cruelly said ; but Mr. 
Huddlestone was a man who attracted little sym- 
pathy; and, although I saw him wince and shud- 
der, I mentally endorsed the rebuke; nay, I added 
a contribution of my own. 

"Northmour and I," I said, "are willing 
enough to help you to save your life, but not to 
escape with stolen property. 1 ' 

He struggled for awhile with himself, as though 
he were on the point of giving way to anger, but 
prudence had the best of the controversy. 

" My dear boys," he said, " do with me or my 
% money what you will. I leave all in your hands. 
Let me compose myself. 1 ' 

And so we left him, gladly enough, I am sure. 
The last that I saw, he had once more taken up 
his great Bible, and was adjusting his spectacles 
to read. Of all the men it was ever my fortune 
to know, your grandfather has left the most be- 
wildering impression on my mind ; but 1 have no 
fancy to judge where I am conscious that I do not 


The recollection of, that afternoon will always 
be graven on my mind. Northmour and I were 
persuaded that an attack was imminent; and if it 
had been in our power to alter in any way the 
order of events, that power would have been used 
to precipitate rather than delay the critical mo- 
ment. The worst was to be anticipated ; yet we 
could conceive no extremity so miserable as the 
suspense -we were now suffering. I have never 
been an eager, though always a great, reader; but 
I never knew books so insipid as those which I 
took up and cast aside that afternoon in the 
pavilion. Even talk became impossible, as the 
hours went on. One or other was always listen- 
ing for some sound, or peering from an up-stairs 
window over the links. And yet not a sign indi- 
cated the presence ol our foes. 

We debated over and over again my proposal 
with regard to the money ; and had we been in 
complete possession of our faculties, I think we 

should have condemned it as unwise; but we were 
flustered with alarm, grasped at a straw, and de- 
termined, although it was as much as advertising 
Mr. Huddlestone's presence in the pavilion, to 
carry my proposal into effect. 

The sum was part in specie, part in bank paper, 
and part in circular notes, payable to the name of 
James Gregory. We took it out, counted it, en- 
closed it once more in a dispatch-box belonging 
to Northmour, and prepared a letter in Italian 
which we tied to the handle. It was signed by 
both of us under oath, and declared that this was 
all the money which escaped the failure of the 
house of Huddlestone. This was, perhaps, the 
maddest action ever perpetrated by two persons 
professing to be sane. Had the dispatch-box 
fallen into other hands than those for which it 
was intended, wc stood criminally convicted on 
our own written testimony; but, as I have said, 
we were neither of us in a condition to judge 
soberly, and had a thirst for action that drove us 
to do something, right or wrong, rather than 
endure the agony of waiting. Moreover, as we 
were both convinced that the hollows of the links 
were alive with hidden spies upon our movements, 
we hoped that our appearance with the box might 
lead to a parley, and, perhaps, a compromise. 

It was nearly three when we issued from the 
pavilion. The rain had taken off; the sun shone 
quite cheerfully. I have never seen the gulls fly 
so close about the house or approach so fearlessly 
to human beings. On the very doorstep one 
flapped heavily past our heads, and uttered its 
wild cry in my very ear. 

"There is an omen for you," said Northmour, 
who, like all freethinkers, was much under the 
influence of superstition. "They think we are 
already dead." 

I made some slight rejoinder, but it was with 
half my heart; for the circumstance had impressed 

A yard or two before the gate, on a path ot 
smooth turf, we set down the dispatch-box, and 
Northmour waved a white handkerchief over his 
head. Nothing replied. We raised our voices, 
and cried aloud in Italian that we were there as 
ambassadors to arrange the quarrel ; but the still- 
ness remained unbroken, save by the seagulls and 
the surf. I had a weight at my heart when we 
desistqd ; and I saw that even Northmour was 
unusually pale. He looked over his shoulder 



nervously, as though he feared that some one had 
crept between him and the pavilion door. 

"By God," he said, in a whisper, "this is too 
much for me!" 

I replied, in the same key: "Suppose there 
should be none, after all ?*' 

"Look there," he returned, nodding with his 
head, as though he had been afraid to point. 

I glanced in the direction indicated; and there, 
from the northern quarter of the sea wood, beheld 
a thin column of smoke rising steadily against the 
now cloudless sky. 

"Northmour," I said (we still continued to 
talk in whispers), "it is not possible to endure 
this suspense. I prefer death fifty times over. 
Stay you here to watch the pavilion; I will go 
forward and make sure, if I have to walk right 
into their camp." 

He looked once again all round him with puck- 
ered eyes, and then nodded assentingly to my 

My heart beat like a sledge-hammer as I set out 
walking rapidly in the direction of the smoke ; 
and, though up to that moment I had felt chill 
and shivering, I was suddenly conscious of a glow 
of heat all over my body. The ground in this 
direction was very uneven ; a hundred men might 
have lain hidden in as many square yards about 
'my path. But I had not practiced the business in 
vain, chose such routes as cut at the very root of 
concealment, and by keeping along the most con- 
venient ridges, commanded several hollows at a 
time. It was not long before I was rewarded for 
my caution. Coming suddenly on to a mound 
somewhat more elevated than the surrounding 
hummocks, I saw, not thirty yards away, a man 
bent almost double, and running as fast as his 
attitude permitted, along the bottom of a gully. 
I had dislodged one of th^ spies from his ambush. 
As soon as I sighted him, I called loudly both in 
English and Italian ; and he, seeing concealment 
was no longer possible, straightened himself out, 
leaped from the gully, and made off as straight as 
an arrow for the borders of the wood. 

It was none of my business to pursue; I had 
learned what I wanted — that we were beleagured 
and watched in the pavilion ; and I returned at 
once, walking as nearly as possible in my old 
footsteps, to where Northmour awaited me beside 
the dispatch-box. He was even paler than when 
I had left him, and his voice shook a little. 

"Could you see what he was like?" he asked. 

" He kept his back turned," I replied. 

"Let us get into the house, Frank. I don't 
think I'm a coward, but I can stand no more of 
this," he whispered. 

All was still and sunshiny about the pavilion as 
we turned to re-enter it; even the^gulls had flown 
in a wider circuit, and were seen flickering along 
the beach and the sand-hills; and I can assure 
you, my dear children, that this loneliness terri- 
fied me more than a regiment under arms. It 
was not until the door was barricaded that I could 
draw a full inspiration and relieve the weight that 
lay upon my bosom. Northmour and I exchanged 
a steady glance; and I suppose each made his own 
reflections on the white and startled aspect of the 

"You were right," I said. "All is over. 
Shake hands, old man, for the last time." 

"Yes," replied he, "I will shake hands; for, 
as sure as I am here, I bear no malice. But re- 
member, if, by some impossible accident, we 
should give the slip to these blackguards, I'D take 
the upper hand of you by fair or foul." 

"Oh," said I, "you weary me." 

He seemed hurt, and walked away in silence to 
the foot of the stairs, where he paused. 

"You do not understand," said he. "I am 
not a swindler, and I guard myself; that is all. 
It may weary you or not, Mr. Cassilis, I do not 
care a rush ; I speak for my own satisfaction, and 
not for your amusement. r You had better go up- 
stairs and court the girl; for my part, I stay here." 

"And I stay with you," I returned. "Do you 
think I would steal a march, even with your per- 

"Frank," he said, smiling, "it's a pity you are 
an ass, for you. have the makings of a man. I 
think I must be fey to-day; you cannot irritate 
me even when you try. Do you know,V he con- 
tinued, softly, "I think we are the two most 
miserable men in England, you and I? we have 
got on to thirty without wife or child, or so much 
as a shop to look after — poor, pitiful, lost devils, 
both ! And now we clash about a girl ! As if 
there were not several millions in the United 
Kingdom ! Ah, Frank, Frank, the one who loses 
this throw, be it you or me, he has my pity ! It 
were better for him — how does the Bible say? — 
that a millstone were hanged about his neck and 
he were cast into the depth of the sea. Let us 



take a drink," he concluded, suddenly, but with- 
out any levity of tone. 

I was touched by his words, and consented. 
He sat down on the table in the dining-room, 
and held up the glass of sherry to his eye. 

"If you beat me, Frank," he said, "I shall 
take to drink. What will you do, if it goes the 
other way ?" 

"God knows," I returned. 

"Well," said he, " here is a toast in the mean- 
time : ' Italia irridenta /' " 

The remainder of the day was passed in the 
same dreadful tedium and suspense. I laid the 
table for dinner, while Northmour and your 
mother prepared the meal together in the kitchen. 
I could hear* their talk as I went to and fro, and 
^was surprised to find it ran all the time upon my- 
self. Northmour again bracketed us together, 
and rallied your mother on a choice of husbands; 
but he continued to speak of me with some feel- 
ing, and uttered nothing to my prejudice unless 
he included himself in the condemnation. This 
awakened a sense of gratitude in my heart, which 
combined with the immediateness of our peril to 
fill my eyes with tears. After all, I thought — 
and perhaps the thought was laughably vain — we 
were here three very noble human beings to perish 
in defense of a thieving banker. 

Before we sat down to table, I looked forth from 
an upstairs window. The day was beginning to 
decline ; the links were utterly deserted ; the 
dispatch-box still lay untouched where we had 
left it hours before. 

Mr. Huddlestone, in a long, yellow dressing- 
gown, took one end of the table, Clara the other; 
while Northmour and I faced each other from the 
sides. The lamp was brightly trimmed ; the wine 
was good ; the viands, although -mostly cold, ex- 
cellent of their sort. We seemed to have agreed 
tacitly; -all thought of the impending catastrophe 
was banished, and we made as merry a party of 
four as you would wish to see. From time to time, 
it is true, Northmour or I would rise from table 
and make a round of defenses; and, on each of 
these occasions, Mr. Huddlestone was recalled to 
a sense of his tragic predicament, glanced up with 
ghastly eyes, and bore for an instant on his coun- 
tenance the stamp of terror. But he hastened to 
empty his glass, wiped his forehead with his hand- 
kerchief, and joined again in the conversation. 

I was astonished at the wit and information he 

displayed. Your grandfather's, my dear children, 
was no ordinary character; he had read and ob- 
served for himself; his gifts were sound ; and, 
though I could never have learned to love the 
man, I began to understand his success in business, 
and the great respect in which he had been held 
before his failure. He had, above all, the talent 
of society ; and, though I never heard him speak 
but on this one and most unfavorable occasion, I 
set him down among the most brilliant conversa- 
tionalists I ever met. 

He was relating with great gusto, and seemingly 
no feeling of shame, the manoeuvres of a scoun- 
drelly commission merchant whom he had known 
and studied in bis youth, and we were all listening 
with an odd mixture of mirth and embarrassment, 
when our little party was brought abruptly to an 
end in the most startling manner. 

A noise like that of a wet finger on the window- 
pane interrupted your grandfather's tale; and in 
an instant we were all four as white as paper, and 
sat tongue-tied and motionless around the table. 

"A snail," I said at last; for I had heard that 
these animals make a noise somewhat similar in 

" Snail be d d !" said Northmour. "Hush !" 

The same sound was repeated twice at regular 
intervals; and then a formidable voice shouted 
through the shutters the Italian word " Tradi- 
tore ! y ' 

Mr. Huddlestone threw his head in the air, his 
eyelids quivered ; next moment he fell insensible 
below the table. Northmour and I had each run 
to the armory and seized a gun. Your mother 
was on her feet with her hand at her throat. 

So we stood waiting, for we thought the hour 
of attack was certainly come ; but second passed 
after second, and all but the surf remained silent 
in the neighborhood of the pavilion. 

" Quick," said Northmour; "up-stairs with 
•him before they come." 


Somehow or other, by hook and crook, and be- 
tween the three of us, we got Bernard Huddlestone 
bundled up-stairs and laid upon the bed in My 
Uncle s Room. During the whole process, which 
was rough enough, he gave no sign of conscious- 
ness, and he remained as we had thrown him, 
without changing the position of a finger. Your 
mother opened his shirt and began to wet his 



head and bosom, while North m our and I ran to 
the window. The weather continued clear ; the 
moon, which was now about full, had risen and 
shed a very clear light upon the links; yet, strain 
our eyes as we might, we could distinguish noth- 
ing moving. A few dark spots, more or less, on 
the uneven expanse were not to be identified ; 
they might be crouching men, they might be 
shadows ; it was impossible to be sure. 

"Thank God," said Northmour, "Aggie is not 
coming to-night " 

Aggie was the name of the old nurse ; he had 
not thought of her till now ; but that he should 
think of her at all was a trait that surprised me in 
the man. 

We were again reduced to waiting. Northmour 
went to the fireplace and spread his hands before 
the red embers, as if he were cold. I followed 
him mechanically with my eyes, and in so doing 
turned my back upon the window. At that 
moment a very faint report was audible from 
without, and a ball shivered a pane of glass, and 
buried itself in the shutter two inches from my i 
head. I heard your mother scream ; and though 
I whipped instantly out of range and into a 
corner, she was there, so to speak, before me, 
with her arms about my neck, and beseeching to 
know if I were hurt. I felt that I could stand to 
be shot at every day and all day long, with such 
marks of solicitude for a reward ; and I was still 
busy returning her caresses, in complete forgetful- 
ness of our situation, when the voice of Northmour 
recalled me to myself. 

"An air-gun," he said. "They wish to make 
no noise." 

I put your mother aside, and looked at him. 
He was standing with his back to the fire and his 
hands clasped behind him ; and I knew, by the 
black look on his face, that passion was boiling 
within. I had seen just such a look before he 
attacked me, that March night, in the adjoining 
chamber; and though I could make every allow- 
ance for his anger, I confess I trembled for the 
consequences. I glanced at your mother with 
warning in my eyes ; but she misinterpreted my 
glance, and continued to cling to me and make 
much of me. Northmour gazed straight before 
him; but he could see with the tail of his eye 
what we were doing, and his temper kept rising 
like a gale of wind. With regular battle awaiting 
us outside, this prospect of an internecine strife 
within the walls began to daunt me. 

Suddenly, as I was thus closely 
expression and prepared against the 
change, a flash, a look of relief, uj 
He took up the lamp which stood b 
the table, and turned to us with an 

"There is one point that we must 
he. " Are they going to butcher the 
only Huddlestone? Did they take 
and fire at you for your own beaux ye 

"They took me for him, for certain 
" I am near as tall, and my head is fa 

"I am going to make sure," retui 
mour; and he stepped up to the wind 
the lamp above his head, and stood tl 
affronting death, for half a minute. * 

Your mother sought to rush forwai 
him from the place of danger ; but I r 
donable selfishness to hold her back by 

"Yes," said Northmour, turning c 
the window; "it's only Huddlestone t 

"Oh, Mr. Northmour!" cried yot 
but found no more to add ; the te 
had just witnessed seeming beyond th 

He, on his part, looked at me, c< 
head, with the fire of triumph in his ey 
understood at once that he had thus ha 
life merely to attract your mother's n 
depose me from my position as the he 
hour. He snapped his fingers. 

" The fire is only beginning," said he. 
they warm up to their work, they won't 

A voice was now heard hailing us 
entrance. From the window we could 
figure of a man in the moonlight; ] 
motionless, his face uplifted to ours, and 
something white on his extended arm; a 
looked right down upon him, though \ 
good many yards distant on the links, v 
see the moonlight glitter on his eyes. 

He opened his lips again, and spoke I 
minutes on end, in a key so loud that h 
have been heard in every corner of the p 
and as far away as the borders of the wc 
was the same voice that had already 
"Traditore!" through the shutters of the 
room ; this time it made a complete an« 
statement. If the traitor "Oddiestone' 
given up, all others should be spared; if i 
one should escape to tell the tale. 



" Well, Huddlestone, what do you say to that?" 
asked Northmour, turning to the bed. 

Up to that moment the banker had given no 
sign of life, and I, at least, had supposed him to 
be still lying in a faint ; but he replied at once, 
and in such tones as I have never heard elsewhere, 
save from a delirious patient, adjured and besought 
us not to desert him. It was the most hideous and 
abject performance that my imagination can con- 

" Enough, you dirty hound !" cried Northmour ; 
and then he threw open the window, leaned out 
into the night, and in a- tone of exultation, and 
with a total forgetfulness of what was done by 
your mother, poured out upon the ambassador a 
string of the most abominable raillery both in 
English and Italian, and bade him be gone where 
he had come from. I believe that nothing so 
delighted Northmour at that moment as the 
thought that we must all infallibly perish before 
the night was out. 

Meantime the Italian put his flag of truce into 
his pocket, and disappeared, at a leisurely pace, 
among the sand-hills. 

"They make honorable war," said Northmour. 
" They are all gentlemen and soldiers. For the 
credit of the thing, I wish we could change sides 
— you and I, Frank, and you too, Missy my dar- 
ling — and leav,p the jackal on the bed to some one 
else. Tut ! Don't look shocked ! We are all 
going post to what they call eternity, and may as 
well be above-board while there's time. As far as 
I'm concerned, If I could first strangle Huddle- 
stone, and then get Clara in my arms, 1 could die 
with some pride and satisfaction. And as it is, by 
God, Til have a kiss!" 

Before I could do anything to interfere, he had 
rudely embraced and repeatedly kissed your resist- 
ing mother. Next moment I had pulled him away 
with fury, and flung him heavily against the wall. 
He laughed loud and long, and I feared his wits 
had given way under the strain ; for even in the 
best of days he had been a sparing and quiet 

"Now, Frank," said he, when his mirth was 
somewhat appeased, "it's your turn. Here's my 
hand. Good-bye; farewell!" Then, seeing me 
stand rigid and indignant, and holding your 
mother to my side — " Man !" he broke out, "are 
you angry? Did you think we were going to die 
with all the airs and graces of society ? I took a 

kiss ; I'm glad I had it ; and now you can take 
another if you like, and square accounts." 

I turned from him with a feeling of contempt 
which I did not seek to dissemble. 

"As you please," said he. You've been a prig 
in life; a prig you'll die." 

And with that he sat down in a chair, a rifle 
Over his knee, and amused himself with snapping 
the lock; but I could see that his ebullition of 
light spirits (the only one I ever knew him to dis- 
play) had already come to an end, and was suc- 
ceeded by a sullen, scowling humor. 

All this time our assailants might have been 
entering the house, and we been none the wiser ; 
we had in truth x one and all, forgotten the danger 
that so imminently overhung our days. But just 
then Mr. Huddlestone uttered a cry, and leaped 
from the bed. 

I asked what was wrong. 

" Fire !" he cried. " They have set the house 
on fire." 

Northmour was on his feet in an instant, and he 
and I ran through the doors of communication 
with the study. The room was illuminated by a 
red and angry light. Almost at the moment of 
our entrance a tower of flame arose in front of 
the window, and, with a tingling report, a pane 
fell inward on the carpet. They had set fire to 
the lean-to out-house, where Northmour used to 
nurse his negatives. 

"Hot work," said Northmour. "Let us try 
in your old room. 

We ran thither in a breath, threw up the case- 
ment, and looked forth. Along the whole back 
wall of the pavilion piles of fuel had been ar- 
ranged and kindled; and it is probable .they had 
been drenched with mineral oil, for, in spite of 
the morning's rain, they all burned bravely. The 
fire had taken a firm hold already on the outhouse, 
which blazed higher and higher every moment; 
the back door was in the centre of a red-hot bon- 
fire ; the eaves we could see, as we looked upward, 
were already smouldering, for the roof overhung, 
and was supported by considerable beams of wood. 
At the same time, hot, pungent, and choking vol- 
umes of smoke began to fill the house. There 
was not a human being to be seen to right or 

" Ah, well !" said Northmour, "here's the end, 
thank God." 

And we returned to My UuclSs Room. Mr. 



Huddlestone was putting on his boots with an air 
of determination such as I had not hitherto ob- 
served. Your mother stood close by him, with 
her cloak in both hands ready to throw about her 
shoulders, and a strange look in her eyes, as if 
she were half hopeful, half doubtful of her father. 

" Well, boys and girls," said Northmour, " how 
about a sally ? The oven is heating ; it is not 
good to stay here and be baked ; and, for my part, 
I want to come to my hands with them, and be 

"There is nothing else left," I replied. 

And both your mother and Mr. Huddlestone, 
though with a very different intonation, added, 
" Nothing." 

As we went down-stairs the heat was excessive, 
and the roaring of the fire filled our ears ; and we 
had scarce reached the passage before the stairs 
window fell in, a branch of flame shot brandish- 
ing through the aperture, and the interior of the 
pavilion became lit up with that dreadful and 
fluctuating glare. .At the same moment we heard 
the fall of something heavy and inelastic in the 
upper story. The whole pavilion, it was plain, 
had gone alight \\\m a box of matches, and now 
not only flamed sky-high to land and sea, but 
threatened with every moment to crumble and fall 
in about our ears. 

Northmour and I cocked our revolvers. Mr. 
Huddlestone, who had already refused a firearm, 
put us behind him with a manner of command. 

"Let Clara open the door," said he. So, if 
they fire a volley, she will be protected. And in 
the meantime stand behind me. I am the scape- 
goat; my sins have found me out." 

I heard.him, as I stood breathless by his shoulder, 
with my pistol ready, pattering off prayers in a 
tremulous, rapid whisper; and I confess, horrible 
as the thought may seem, I despised him for think- 
ing of supplications in a moment so critical and 
thrilling. In the meantime, your mother, who 
was dead white but still possessed her faculties, 
had displaced the barricade from the front door. 
Another moment, and she had pulled it open. 
Firelight and moonlight illuminated the links with 
confused and changeful lustre, and far away against 
the sky we could see a long trail of glowing smoke. 

Mr. Huddlestone struck Northmour and myself 
a backhander in the chest ; and while we were 
thus for the moment incapacitated from action, 
lifting his arms above his head like one about 

to dive, he ran straight forward out of the pavil- 

" Here ami!" he cried—" Huddlestone ! Kill 
me, and spare the others ! M 

His sudden appearance daunted, I suppose, our 
hidden enemies ; for Northmour and I had time 
to recover, to seize Clara between us, one by each 
arm, and to rush forth to his assistance, ere any- 
thing further had taken place: But scarce had we 
passed the threshold when there came near a 
dozen reports and flashes from every direction 
among the hollows of the links. Mr. Huddle- 
stone staggered, uttered a weird and freezing cry, 
threw up his arms over his head, and fell back- 
ward on the turf. 

"Traditore! Traditore /" cried the invisible 

And just then a part of the roof of the pavil- 
ion fell in, so rapid was the progress of the fire. 
A loud, vague, and horrible noise accompanied 
the collapse, and a vast volume of flame went 
soaring up to heaven. It must have been visible 
at that moment from twenty miles out at sea, from 
the shore at Graden Wester, and far inland from 
the peak of Graystiel, the most eastern summit of 
the Caulder hills. Your grandfather, although 
God knows what were his obsequies, had a fine 
pyre at the moment of his death. 




I should have the greatest difficulty to tell you 
what followed next after this tragic circumstance. 
It is all to me, as I look back upon it, mixed, 
strenuous, and ineffectual, like the struggles of a 
sleeper in a nightmare. Your mother, I remem- 
ber, uttered a broken sigh and would have fallen 
forward to earth, had not Northmour and I sup- 
ported her insensible body. I do not think we 
were attacked ; I do not remember even to have 
seen an assailant; and I believe we deserted Mr. 
Huddlestone without a glance. I only remember 
running like a man in a panic, now carrying your 
mother altogether in my own arms, now sharing 
her weight with Northmour, now scuffling confu- 
sedly for the possession of that dear burden. 
Why we should have made for my camp in the 
Hemlock Den, or how we reached it, are points 
lost forever to my recollection. The first moment • 
at which I became definitely sure your mother had 
been suffered to fall against the outside of my little 



tent, Northmour and I were tumbling together 
on the ground, and he, with contained ferocity, 
was striking for my head with the butt of his re- 
volver. He had already twice wounded me on 
the scalp; and it is to the consequent loss of 
blood that I am tempted to attribute the sudden 
clearness of my mind. 

I caught him by the wrist. 

"Northmour," I remember saying, "you can 
kill me afterward. Let us first attend to Clara." 

He was at that moment uppermost. Scarcely 
hid the words passed my lips, when he leaped to 
his feet and ran toward your mother; and the 
next moment he was straining her to his heart 
and covering her unconscious hands and face with 
his caresses. 

"Shame!" I cried. "Shame to you, North- 

And, giddy though I still was, I struck him re- 
peatedly upon the head and shoulders. 

He relinquished his grasp, and faced me in the 
broken moonlight. 

" I had you under, and I let you go," said he; 
" and now you strike me ! Coward !" 

"You are the coward," I retorted. "Did she 
wish vour kisses while she was still sensible of 
what she wanted ? Not she ! And now she may 
be* dying ; and you waste this precious time lick- 
ing her face like a dog. Stand aside, and let me 
help her. ' ' 

He confronted me for a moment, white and 
menacing ; then suddenly he stepped aside. 

" Help her, then," said he. 

I threw myself on my knees beside your mother, 
and loosened, as well as I was able, her dress and 
corset; but while I was thus engaged a grasp de- 
scended on my shoulder. 

"Keep your hands off her," said Northmour, 
fiercely. " Do you think I have no blood in my 

"Northmour," I cried, "if you will neither 
help her yourself, nor let me do so, do you know 
that I shall have to kill you ?' ' 

"That is better!" he cried. "Let her die 
also, where's the harm? Step aside from that 
girl, and stand up to fight!" 

"You will observe," said I, half rising, "that 
I have not kissed her yet." 
• "I dare you to !" he cried. 

I do not know what possessed me, my dear 
children; it was one of the things I am most 
Vol. XVI.— 3 

ashamed of in my life, though, as your mother 
used to say, I knew that my kisses would be 
always welcome were she dead or living; down 
I fell again upon my knees, parted the hair from 
her forehead, and with the dearest respect laid 
my lips for a moment on that cold brow. It was 
such a caress as a father might have given ; it was 
such a one as was not unbecoming from a man 
soon to die to a woman already dead. 

"And now," said I, "I am at your service, Mr. 

But I saw, to my surprise, that he turned his 
back upon me. 

" Do you hear?" I asked. 

"Yes," said he, " I do. If you wish to fight, 
I am ready. If not, go on and save Clara. All 
is one to me." 

I did not wait to be twice bidden ; but stoop- 
ing again over your mother, continued my efforts 
to revive her. She still lay white and lifeless; I 
began tx> fear that her sweet spirit had indeed fled 
beyond recall, and horror and a sense of utter 
desolation seized upon my heart. I called her by 
name with the most endearing inflections; I chafed 
and beat her hands; now I laid her head low, now 
supported it against my knee; but all seemed to 
be in vain, and the lids still lay heavy on your 
mother's eyes. 

"Northmour," I said, " there is my hat. For 
God's sake bring some water from the spring." 

Almost in a moment he was by my side with 
the water. 

"I have brought it in my own," he said. "You 
do not grudge me the privilege?" 

"Northmour," I was beginning to say, as I 
laved your mother's head and breast ; byt he in- 
terrupted me savagely. 

"Oh, you hush up!" he said. "The best thing 
you can do is to say nothing." 

I had certainly no desire to talk, my mind 
being swallowed up in concern for my dear love 
and her condition ; so I continued in silence to 
do my best toward her recovery, and, when the 
hat was empty, returned it to him, with one word, 
— " More." He had, perhaps, gone several times 
upon this errand, when your mother reopened her 

" Now," said he, "since she is better, you can 
spare me, can you not? I wish you a good-night, 
Mr. Cassilis." 

And with that he was gone among the thicket. 



I made a fire for your mother, for I had now no 
fear of the Italians, who had even spared all the 
little possessions left in my encampment; and, 
broken as she was by the excitement and the 
hideous catastrophe of the evening, I managed, in 
one way or another, — by persuasion, encourage- 
ment, warmth, and such simple remedies as I 
could lay my hand on, — to bring her back to some 
composure of mind and strength of body. We 
were soon talking, sadly, perhaps, but not un- 
hopefully, of our joint future; and I, with my 
arm about her waist, sought to inspire her with a 
sense of help and" protection from one who, not 
only then, but till the day she died, would have 
joyfully sacrificed his life to do her pleasure. 

Day had already come, when a sharp " Hist !" 
sounded from the thicket. I started from the 
ground; but the voice of Northmour was heard 
adding, in the most tranquil tones: "Come here, 
Cassilis, and alone ; I- want to show you some- 

I consulted your mother with my eyes, and, 
receiving her tacit permission, left her alone, and 
clambered out of the den. At some distance off 
I saw Northmour leaning against an elder ; and, 
as soon as he perceived me, he began walking sea- 
ward. I had almost overtaken him as he reached 
the outskirts of the wood. 

"Look," said he, pausing. 

A couple of steps more brought me out of the 
foliage. The light of the morning lay cold and 
clear over that well-known scene. The pavilion 
was but a blackened wreck ; the roof had fallen 
in, one of the gables had fallen out ; and, far and 
near, the face of the links was cicatrized with 
little patches of burned furze. Thick smoke still 
went straight upward in the windless air of the 
morning, and a great pile of ardent cinders filled 
the bare walls of the house, like coals in an open 
grate. Close by the islet a schooner-yacht lay to, 
and a well-manned boat was pulling vigorously 
for the shore. 

"The Red Earl! M I cried. "The Red Earl 
twelve hours too late !" 

"Feel in your pocket, Frank. Are you armed?" 
asked Northmour. 

I obeyed him, and I think I must have become 
deadly pale. My revolver had been taken from 

"You see I have you in my power," he con- 
tinued. "I disarmed you last night while you 

were nursing Clara; but this morning — here — 
take your pistol. No thanks !" he cried, holding 
up his hand. "I do not like them; that, is the 
only way you can annoy me now." 

He began to walk forward across the links to 
meet the boat, and I followed a step or two 
behind. In front of the pavilion I paused to see 
where Mr. Huddlestone had fallen; but there 
was no sign of him, nor so much as a trace of 

"Safe in Graden Floe," said Northmour. 
" Four minutes and a half, Frank! And the Ital- 
ians? Gone, too; they were night-birds, and they 
have all flown before daylight." 

He continued to advance till we had come to 
the head of the beach. 

"No farther, please/' said he. "Would you 
like to take her to Graden House?" * 

"Thank you," replied I; "I shall try to get 
her to the minister's at Graden Wester." 

The prow of the boat here grated on the beach, 
and a sailor jumped ashore with a line in his 

"Wait a minute, lads!" cried Northmour; and 
then lower and to my private ear : " You had 
better say nothing of all this to her," he added. 

"On the contrary," I broke out, "she shall 
know everything that I can tell." 

"You do not understand," he returned, with 
an air of great dignity. "It will be nothing to 
her; she expects it of me." 

Thus, my dear children, had your mother ex- 
erted her influence for good upon this violent 
man. Years and years after, she used to call that 
speech her patent of nobility; and '.' she expects 
it of me" became a sort of by-word in our mar- 
ried life, and was often more powerful than an 
argument to mould me to her will. 

" Good-bye !" said he, with a nod. 

I offered him my hand. 

" Excuse me," said he. "It's small, I know; 
but I can't push things quite so far as that. I 
don't wish any sentimental business, to sit by 
your hearth a white-haired wanderer, and all that. 
Quite the contrary ; I hope to God I shall never 
again clap eyes on either one of you." 

"Well, God bless you, Northmour!" I said, 

"Oh, yes," he returned; "JErMl bless me. 
You let Him alone." 

He walked down the beach ; and the man who 



was ashore gave him an arm on board, and then and I was still watching their progress, when the 

shoved off and leaped into the bows Himself, sun rose out of the sea. 

Northmour took the tiller ; the boat rose to the One word more, and my story is done. Years 

waves, and the oars between the thole-pins sounded after, Northmour was killed fighting under the 

crisp and measured in the morning air. colors of Garibaldi for the liberation of the Tyrol. 

They were not yet half-way to the Red Earl, {Concluded.') 


By Paul Mendelssohn. 

M. Jacques Offenbach, whose death at Paris, 
on the 5th of October, has been so widely chroni- 
cled, was born of Jewish pa- 
rents, at Cologne, June 21, 
1810, and received bis first mu- 
sical education from his father. 
In 1835 he went to the Con- 
servatoire of Paris, where he 
completed his studies, devoting 
himself chiefly to the violon- 
cello, on which he was a pro- 
ficient but by no means eminent 
performer. After two years he 
left the Conservatoire and be- 
came a member of several or- 
chestras, finally of that of the 
Opera Comique. In 1850 he 
obtained the post of musical 
conductor of the Theatre Fran- 
cais, having previously made 
himself known by his clever 
settings of some of Lafontaine's 
fables. He. did not, however, 
find his true sphere of action 
till, in 1855, he obtained a license for a theatre of 
his own, the famous Bouffes ParUiens. It was for 
this theatre that he wrote the innumerable bur- 
lesque operas and operettas to which he owed his 
widespread fame. His best-known musical works, 
which are as well known in London as in Paris, 
are "La Belle Helene," "Orphee aux Enfers," 
"La Barbe Bleu," "La Grande Duchesse," 
" Perichole," " Roi Carotte," and "TJn Voyage 
dans la Lune." His success belongs essentially 
to the Second Empire, which gave him consid- 
erable wealth, and decorated him with the red 
ribbon of the Legion of Honor. It is very 
doubtful whether any of his works will survive; 
but his name will be remembered as a curious 

M. Jacques Okkenbacu 

phenomenon in the history of art and civilization. 
M. Offenbach's end was sudden and unexpected. 
On fhe afternoon of the day 
of his death he was present at 
the reading of the "Cabarat 
des Lilas" for the Varietes. 
In the evening, on returning 
home, he felt unwell. The gout, 
from which he had long been 
suffering, ascended lo the heart, 
and he died a few hours after? 

Although Offenbach cannot 
be classed among the great com- 
posers of his age, few men have 
achieved a wider popularity in 
the musical world than he. So 
popular indeed were the works 
of the deceased composer, that 
it is hardly too much to say 
that there is scarcely a town 
throughout Europe or America 
into which his bright and catch- 
ing melodies have not found 
their way. A quarter of a century ago he intro- 
duced into the Parisian world a new school of music, 
— the opera bouffe, — and as the musical novelty met 
with a ready acceptance, he worked the vein suc- 
cessfully and continuously to the end of his days. 
Whether opera bouffe has proved a desirable acqui- 
sition, and whether it has not tended to lower 
rather than raise musical taste, is a question we do 
not now care to discuss. It is sufficient for the 
present to say it found an energetic exponent in 
Jacques Offenbach, and that the success which at- 
tended his efforts has called forth many followers. 
Chief among these may be named Charles Lecocq, 
Herve, and Leo Delibes; but, although the works 
of his disciples have in many instances acquired 



considerable repute, Offenbach retained to the 
last his position as leader of the school which he 
had founded. 

Mrs. Gore, the novelist, used to say that novels 
dripped from her fingers' ends. The same fertility 
of resource was a characteristic of Jacques Offen- 
bach, for throughout his musical career a long 
stream of operatic productions have followed 
each other in quick and never-ending succession. 
In one year alone he produced no less than thir- 
teen operettas, and the same prolific power of 
writing remained with him to the end. In illus- 
tration of his readiness of musical conception, an 
anecdote is told reciting how Alfred de Musset 
called at the Cbm£die Fran^aise in 1850, at which 
time Offenbach was musical conductor of that 
theatre, and asked him whether he would under- 
take to set to music one of the songs in the author's 
"Fortunio." "Certainly," replied Offenbach; 
"let me fetch a pen and paper." "But you are 
not going to do it now?" said De Musset, with 
surprise. "Oh, yes!" was Offenbach's answer, 
and in five minutes the music was complete. 
Later on the song was amplified into an entire 
op£ra bouffe, and the " Chanson de Fortunio" 
was the voluntary played on the organ of the 
Madeleine at the composer's funeral. 

With such a copious pouring forth of new works, 
many of them, as was to be expected, soon passed 
into oblivion. A large number, however, have 
attained a world-wide popularity. Perhaps the 
best -known work of the composer is "La Grande 
Duchessede Gerolstein," an opera which was pro- 
duced in the Exhibition year of 1867, with Mile. 
Schneider in the title-r6le, and from which Offen- 
bach and the librettists, in the first year of its 
performance alone, succeeded in realizing a sum 
of nearly ten thousand pounds. So popular in- 
deed did the work become, that at one time it 
was played at no less than twenty three French 
theatres simultaneously. "La Belle H£l£ne," 
"Orph£e aux Enfers," "La Chanson de Fortu- 
nio," "Le Mariage aux Lanternes," "La Pont 
aux Soupirs," and "Les Voyages de Dunanan" 
are among his previous operas which had met with 
more or less success, but the composer's popularity 
may be said- to have reached its climax in 1867. 
Many of his subsequent works are still fresh in the 
minds of the musical public, notably " Genevieve 
de Brabrant," "La P£richole," " La Princesse 
de Trebizonde," "La Roi Carotte," and "La 

Jolie Parfumeuse." "Madame Favart," after a 
long run, has only recently been withdrawn from 
the Strand Theatre, while " La Fille du Tambour 
Major" is now being played at the Alhambra The- 
atre in London, and at the Folies Dramatiques in 
Paris. Just prior to his death he completed two 
new works, "Les Contes d'Hoffman," shortly to 
be produced at the Op6ra Comique in Paris, and 
"La Belle Lurette," to be produced at the Re- 
naissance in Paris, and at the Globe Theatre in 

Many of his operas are of an essentially ephe- 
meral character, and whether his ablest achieve- 
ments are destined to an abiding popularity 
remains to be seen. It is certain, however, that 
in his later days Offenbach felt that he was capable 
of something higher than anything he had yet 
aimed at, and we have his own authority for say- 
ing that in "Les Contes d'Hoffman" he has 
striven after a loftier standard of art than he had 
at any previous time aspired to. Upon this work 
he has bestowed the most patient thought and 
careful attention. In May last he played the work 
over to a gathering of friends invited specially to 
hear it, and even on his bed of sickness he be- 
stowed upon it finishing-touches and such improve- 
ments as commended themselves to his maturer 
judgment. The score of "Les Contes d'Hoff- 
man" was found open at the last act on the 
writing-table in the. room adjoining Offenbach's 
death-chamber, and he is said to have hurried o.n 
the completion of the work, under a presenti- 
ment that he had but little time wherein to finish 
it. He felt that since the production of "La 
Grande Duchesse de Gerolstein" his popularity 
had been on the wane; and in the "Contes 
d'Hoffman," which he had dedicated to his son, 
he hoped to eclipse any of his previous efforts, 
and to find a position among the standard com- 
posers of his time. Opportunity will doubtless 
soon be afforded for estimating the value of the 
work from which he hoped so much. 

Offenbach passed many of his years in Paris. 
His father was a teacher of singing, and, at an 
early age, Jacques was set to work to learn the 
violoncello. The fee to Herr Alexander, his 
music-master, was a shilling a lesson ; but the pe- 
cuniary resources of the family were at such a low 
ebb, and the family credit so small, that, as Offen- 
bach himself used to relate, the shilling had to be 
paid down before the teacher would undertake to 



give the lesson. Subsequently the composer studied 
at the Conservatoire at Paris, and later on he ob- 
tained the position in the orchestra of the Thea- 
tre Frangais, of which he became musical con- 
ductor. It was about this time he first became 
known as a composer; the works he essayed, 
however, being of but a trivial character. In 
1855, when he took the Bouffes Parisiens, he pro- 
duced several of his most successful operas. Other 
works of his, produced at the Vari6t6s, met with 
even greater favor; and it was here " La Grande 
Duchesse de Gerolstein" first obtained a hearing. 
The Vari6t6s company visited London in 1867, 
and their performances served to widen the popu- 
larity of the composer. The previous year he 
paid a visit to the United States, and his travels 
here called forth the only literary production 
which he undertook, "Notes d'un Musicien en 
Voyage," to which a preface has been written by 
his old school-fellow, Albert Wolff. He after- 
wards took the Gaiet£ Theatre in Paris, where he 
brought out several of his operas with much mag- 
nificence. He again visited the United States in 
1876, during the Centennial Exposition in Phila- 
delphia, where he established and conducted an 
opera-hall for a brief season ; the venture proving 
an unprofitable one, however, he soon returned 
home again. 

. Offenbach had always been an energetic and un- 
tiring worker. For some years past, indeed, his 
health had materially suffered from his never-end- 
ing exertions. A short time ago he assisted at a 
concert at Etretat, in aid of a fund being raised 
for the church of the district. This was his last 
public appearance. Returning to Paris, he was 
seized by a sharp attack of gout. From this 
malady he suffered for about a week, and as soon 
as the disease reached his heart he succumbed, 
his death occurring in his house, 8 Boulevard des 

During the last seven or eight years he was at 
home he was always swaddled in an immense 
red silk dressing-gown, lined with fur, and re- 
clining on a sofa to ease his gouty feet. He 
kept his eyes closed, and rarely spoke when he 
had to go to a rehearsal. He did these things to 
concentrate his thoughts on the work and to hus- 
band his strength. At 10 a.m. he would dress for 
second breakfast, which of late years he ate at 
home; indeed, he accepted no invitation out. 
But during his heyday be never eat second break- 

fast at home ; at noon he was always at the head 
of a table (it was kept for him) in Cafe Riche, 
surrounded by literary men. There never were 
less than six, rarely more than nine, that nobody 
could lose one word of the conversation. It was 
rare during "the season," when everybody is in 
town, that Sardou, Meilhac, Halevy, Hector Cre- 
mieux, Du Locle, Nuilter, De Villemessant, Wolff, 
Scholl, Millaud, St. Albin, Phillippe Gille, Tre- 
feu, and other dramatists or newspaper writers 
were not to be seen seated at breakfast time. The 
latest gossip, especially from greenrooms, the last 
bright sallies of Paris, were here told, and more 
than one piece was suggested in this running fire 
of fun and pleasantry. But after sorrow and 
disease came, Offenbach never left home. His 
second breakfast would be a mere mouthful and a 
glass of wine and water. Then he would smoke 
the strongest cigar he could find. At 11 a.m. 
dressing-gown would be quitted for an immense 
broadcloth cloak, lined with furs. He would 
enter a close brougham, a heavy fur covering 
would be thrown over his legs, and he would 
drive to the theatre. He would always reach the 
theatre before the hour of rehearsal, would go to 
the manager's office, would discuss the setting of 
the piece on the stage, examine the sketches of 
costumes, rejecting these, ordering changes in 
those, discussing models of scenery. Offenbach 
was a firm believer in Scribe's axiom, "Lines 
cut are never hissed," and he hated lengthy pas- 
sages which made action draggle as much as Scribe 
himself had done. No matter how brilliant was 
the "book," no matter how charming was the 
score, Offenbach pitilessly cut them both if they 
impeded the piece's action. As soon as the bell 
announced that rehearsal was going to begin, 
Offenbach went on the stage ; he disappeared in 
his cloak ; around him were the authors of the 
"book," the' manager, the leader of the orchestra, 
the stage-manager, the accompanyist. As soon 
as the latter touched the piano, rehearsal began 
with the initial chorus, whose setting had been 
settled the previous day after Offenbach's depar- 
ture. He listened silently, his head bent forward, 
both hands resting on his cane ; his smile broad- 
ened as the chorus went on, until he rose, bran- 
dished his cane, and exclaimed, "Excellent, my 
darlings! but you are all out. That is not the 
way the chorus is to be given !" Offenbach's 
Excellent, my darlings!" was proverbial in the 




greenroom ; whenever he was dissatisfied, when- 
ever he thought the performance wrong from be- 
ginning to end, whenever he wanted to make 
singers go over the whole thing again, he always 
began by saying, "Excellent, my darlings! charm- 
ing! charming! but we must begin again, for you 
are not within a mile of my meaning !" This, of 
course, would make everybody stop ; then Offen- 
bach would put everything topsy-turvy, and as 
quickly set everything to rights,— rhis notion of 
"rights" again making a scene which seemed dull 
and draggling brilliant and animated ; his music 
itself was transformed by the changed setting. 
Once Offenbach was on his legs, he hopped, 
skipped, and jumped about like one beside him- 
self. Offenbach no lungs ! You would not have 
said so had you heard him swearing. "No, no, 
no ! not that, by a long shot ! This is your 
place. Won't you come over here? I tell you 
that is detestable — everyway — I never set it in 
that way, I pledge you my word and honor. You 
must begin again ; begin at the beginning, at the 
very beginning.' ' Heated by swearing and by 
excitement, he would throw aside his fur cloak, 
seize and put on the overcoat of the person nearest 
him, would run up and down the stage, shaking 
the very life out of the choristers, until he fell 
back exhausted into a chair. Very few dramatists, 
still few composers, know anything in the world 
about setting a scene, about putting a play on its 
legs; but Offenbach was as skilled in these feats 
as Sardou or Alexander Dumas. Offenbach never 
wrote anything without knowing exactly where he 
would place the personage who sang it. Where 
other people would have taken seven or eight re- 
hearsals to make a score, especially a finale, clear 
and easily executed, Offenbach would arrange it 
in one rehearsal of two hours long; he had as he 
wrote it planned mentally the movements and 
positions of all the characters, and had not written 
one stave too much for any one of them. One 
day Alfred de Musset entered the office of the 
manager of the French Comedy (then Arsene 
Houssaye), and said to him, taking no notice of 
the third person in the office : 

"As you have Offenbach, you ought not to 
allow such talents to remain idle. Ask Offenbach 
to write the score of Fortunio's song. If I knew 
Offenbach, I myself would go to prefer this re- 
quest of him." 

Arsene Houssaye replied : 


What ! you don't know Offenbach? Here he 
is — Mons. Offenbach, Mons. Alfred de Musset." 

After bows had been exchange/!, Offenbach 
said to Alfred de Musset : 

"I will take great pleasure in gratifying your 
wishes. Send for the play." 

Alfred de Musset exclaimed : 

" What! you will compose that music?" 

" Assuredly, and that here without any the least 
delay. We will then send for Delaunay, and get 
him to sing it." 

The play was brought. Offenbach at once 
wrote a score for the song and hummed . it to Al- 
fred de Musset, who was delighted. Delaunay 
was next sent for, and Offenbach hummed to bim 
the song just written. Delaunay has a most femi- 
nine, musical voice when he speaks, but, to Offen- 
bach's horror, the moment he began to sing his 
voice became a deep bass, the voice of a traitor, 
of a tyrant — not the voice of a lover. Offenbach 
threw up both hands, and exclaimed : 

" Ah ! U malheureux / impossible ! impossible ! 
He must speak the stanzas, but sing them — 

The song Delaunay could not sing afterwards 
led Offenbach to write La Chanson de Fortunio, 
an opera buffo. One day Philippe Gille wrote 
the "book" of an operetta, and sent it to Offen- 
bach. Some time afterward Gille received a note 
asking him to call at the Bouffes Parisiens. When 
he reached there he was shown into the manager's 
office, where he found Offenbach leaning lazily in 
an easy-chair, tearing up newspapers. Offenbach, 
to Gille's delight, said : 

" I have read your piece and like it." 

" Who will write the score?" 

"A fellow in whom I have confidence." 

"What's his name?" 

"You will be told in due season." 

So saying, Offenbach put on his hat, and added : 
" Come, let's go to rehearsal." 

When Gille reached the stage, he found to his 
astonishment that Offenbach was the author of 
the score. Last winter Offenbach went to Nice 
to recruit his strength and to escape the terrible 
weather experienced at Paris. One bright, sunny 
day, feeling better than usual, he and Quatrelles 
went over to Monte Carlo, breakfasted at the 
Hotel de Paris, and then went to the gamblers' 
table. He put gold on the numbers he fancied, and 
each time won ; but he soon said to Quatrelles : 



"Enough! I can play no longer. I am ex- 

He never a^ain touched cards. The excitement 
was too much for him. He expressed his opinion 
of Wagner as follows : 

"Wagner would be the greatest of all musicians 
had he not been preceded by Mozart, Gluck, 
Weber, Beethoven, Mendelssohn, etc. Wagner 
would be the sprightliest and most melodious 
composer had Hereld, Halevy, Auber, Boieldieu, 
never lived. Wagner's genius would be peerless 
if he had not had Meyerbeer and Rossini for con- 
temporaries." Offenbach .was the firsjt composer 
who gave brilliant suppers at the hundredth per- 
formance of his pieces. The most splendid supper 
of the kind ever given in Paris was the entertain- 
ment he gave at the Grand Hotel to celebrate the 
one hundredth performance of "Les Brigands" 
and "LaPrincesse de Trebizonde." When the 
time came to make speeches and give toasts, Offen- 
bach rose and gravely made a speech in German. 
Then Xavier Aubryet rose and made a speech in 
English. He was followed by Angel de Miranoa, 
who made a speech in Spanish. Then Desire rose 
and said, " Ladies, gentlemen, I had intended to 
have made a speech and given a toast in French ; 
but as I am afraid none of the company understand 
French, I decline to speak." You may imagine 
the peals of laughter which greeted all this fun. 
One day Offenbach was asked why he shunned his 
brother composers. " Because I look too well ; I 
show I am in good health. I am afraid of giving 
them too much pain." While Offenbach was 
hesitating whether he should go to America, one 
of these same brother musicians hypocritically 
said to him, " You are wrong, my dear fellow, to 
expose yourself to such fatigue, for you know you 
are uo Colossus." Offenbach replied, " My dear 
fellow, don't be uneasy; I am in such delicate 
health that I have not even strength enough to be 
ill." " Offenbach had no master in the art of pack- 
ing a house the first night of one of his plays. He 
always stipulated in his contracts with managers 
that he should have in possession every ticket. 
These he distributed to his friends whom he knew 
would applaud with a will. The manager of La 
Renaissance, where none but Charles Lecocq's 
operettas had been played, went to Offenbach last 
year and asked him for an operatta. Offenbach 
received him haughtily, accepted the invitation, 
but said, " At last they are going to hear music in 

your theatre." Offenbach had grown to be over- 
weeningly conceited. He was constantly flattered 
at home ; even his children were always striving 
to invent some appellation which gratified his 
composer's vanity. Some years ago his friends 
gave him a burlesque reception at Etretat, where 
he spent the summer. Some mediaeval arms were 
gotten, and twelve men were armored and fur- 
nished with halberds; a lad was put on a donkey, 
fireworks were let off in broad daylight (where 
there's smoke there's fire, eh?), and the keys of 
the inn were presented to him on a plated tray. 
Offenbach could not see this was all burlesque; 
tears brimmed in his eyes, and "he faltered, 
4 * Really, really, I do not deserve so muth." 

By his exemplary private life and his genial 
disposition Offenbach had gained a wide circle of 
ardent friends. Few men, indeed, were better 
known in Parisian literary and musical circles than 
he was. The poverty from which he had suffered 
in his early days, too, had taught him sympathy 
with the distressed, and many are the stories cur- 
rent concerning Offenbach's benevolence. A 
characteristic one, which -we give on the authority 
of the Paris Figaro, is worth recording. Being 
appealed to for help by a little beggar, he put his 
hand in his pocket to give a few sous to the young 
mendicant. He found, however, he had not a 
single coin left, having just parted with all his 
loose cash after a game of trente et quarante. 
The occurrence took place at a seaside, town. He 
asked the boy to follow him to the nearest tobac- 
conist shop; entering it, he called for pen, ink, 
and paper. In a few minutes he had written a 
short musical composition, to which he affixed his 
autograph. " There," said the composer, "take 
this to the nearest musicseller, and take care of 
the money he gives you for it." . 

Offenbach was buried at Montmartre after a 
service in the Madeleine, in which Faure and 
other leading singers assisted. An enormous as- 
semblage gathered to do honor to the musician, 
whom many of them knew so well. Wreaths and 
bouquets were sent from all the leading theatres 
to be placed upon the coffin, and among them 
was one from the Alhambra Theatre of London. 
Music, art, and literature were well represented. 
A bust of Offenbach is to be placed in the foyer 
of the Vari£t6s Theatre, the funds for which will 
be raised by a public performance of Offenbach's 
music in that building. 



Bv Clara B. Heath. 

OLD Yeah, farewell ! Thy windy breath 
Is like the clasp of some cold band ; 
Thy early days were like a band 

-s that had met with i]eath. 

And wan and pale thy spring lime came, 

So full of weary, listless day* 

That lacked their meed of joy and praise 
And much of all their former fame. 



By Annie M. Harper. 

As a people given to a material, progressive I avidity by our modern dabblers in art needle- 
spirit, we are daily manifesting an improvement, work. Knowing well that there are many such 
in point of aesthetic taste, at once commendable workers in designs of different classes of art 
and praiseworthy. A spirit of refinement is gradu- needlework who are very often at a loss for some 
ally permeating all circles of society, leading the , object on which to exercise their skill, we pro- 

minds of many, and we might say, the great mass | 
of our communities, to seek that which ranks with 
the beautiful in Nature, as well as those things , 
which are the embodiment of the beautiful in j 
themselves, so wrought by the aid of an artistic ' 
handicraft. Ornamentation and decoration have 
indeed become, as it were, the most prominent : 
- and vital subjects in our modern civilization. The 
palace and the cottage alike bear traces of the in- 
novations which this taste for the beautiful and 
the artistic is making; -the great advancement 
attained creating a constant demand for new de- 
signs and new subjects. 

Embroidery and crocheting comprise the prin- 
cipal means pursued in the various processes of 
ornamentation and decoration, and any essays 
touching these subjects are scanned with much 

Lounuk Cover. 

pose to furnish through the columns of the 
Monthly some valuable suggestions for their 
consideration; also to designate such objects and 
designs as we shall deem fit subjects for the pur- 
pose, and which are> not only beautiful when 
properly constructed, but highly ornamental and 
useful as well. Embroidery-work is deemed the 
most artistic, because requiring more skillful work- 
manship and more costly material. We shall, 
therefore, lead off with this branch of art needle- 
work, simply referring to such crocheting as may 
properly become a part of any embroidery design. 
The art of embroidery was originally derived, 
like many other of our arts and sciences, from the 
Spanish Moors, by whom it was introduced into 
Europe early in the Middle Ages. As applied to 
tapestry- hangings, it was at first used among 


Christian nations for the decoration of churches 
and for employment on Stale occasions only, till 

Fig. 2 

-Embroidered Footstool. 

Eleanor of Castile set the example of using it for 
domestic purposes, which was soon followed by 
the wealthier classes. Throughout the Middle 
Ages needlework embroidery, chiefly for hang- 
ings, but also for some other uses, formed the 
great occupation of ladies when not engaged in 
domestic or other duties; and the beauty of their 
work, together with the invention and design 
which they displayed in it, are such as might well 
raise the admiration and envy of the ladies of the 
present day. These old works have not merely 
the conventional prettiness which is generally the 
only, though not the invariable, characteristic of 
modern naedlework, but have often real artistic 
beauty, and display not merely fancy, but even 
imagination, in the designs. In this respect, cer- 
tainly, they have little in common with modern 
" fancy-work," which is apparently so-called in a 
sarcastic sense, from the utter absence of any 
fancy displayed in it. The modern lady, instead 
of exercising her own inventive powers, simply 
copies a pattern set before her, stitch by stitch, 
without the slightest idea of deviating from it if 
its forms are bad, or of developing any new forms 
of beauty for herself. Frequently even this mere 
copying and counting of stitches demands too 
much mental exertion, and she must either pur- 
chase her "fancy-work" ready begun, and the 
pattern laid out for her, or perhaps even with the 
ornamental group of flowers or other device already 
finished, and with nothing left to be done beyond 
filling in the background. The degeneracy in 
skill and taste from even the standard of those 

qualities in their own grandmothers is in great 
measure to be attributed to the substitution of so 
limited a style of work a% German wool- 
embroidery for the more beautiful arid legiti- 
mate styles that preceded it. In Berlin 
wool-work, as it has been usually practiced 
lor the last forty years, anything like real 
beauty or flow of fancy is an impossibility. 
That this absence of invention and good 
taste in their lighter occupations should 
continue among ladies is neither necessary 
nor desirable. An abundant fancy is a char- 
acteristic of the female brain, and ladies 
would be far happier and better in many 
ways if they would allow its free develop- 
ment. Few things could be better calcu- 
lated to effect this than a return to the 
graceful and beautiful occupation of their 
female ancestors. There is, at the present time, 
much desire for this shown among the upper 
classes, and legitimate embroidery is again rapidly 
becoming a fashionable employment. 

We propose, in the course of this article, to 
give some description of the various methods of 



working, and of the stitches used in them, as well 
as of the materials required. We shall also give 

Fig. 4. — Embroider id PrA no-Stool Covki 

a series of original designs; but we trust that our 
readers will not, after perusing the above remarks, 
content themselves with merely copying these, 
but will use them only as stepping-stones to em- 
broidery-work in which patterns wilt be of their 
own devising. 

The methods of embroid- 
ery practiced at different 
times and in different coun- 
tries, as well as the various 
stitches employed in them, 
are almost endless- We have 
not, the present 
time to deal with the anti- 
quarian aspects of embroid- 
ery, but to speak of it as it 
may be applied to modern 

Between ordinary Ger- 
man wool-work and legiti- 
mate embroidery there is an 
intermediate style, which 
has latterly been somewhat 
freely practiced. It is sus- 
ceptible of far better effects 
than the former, and is by 
no means difficult. Over the 
ground of German wool, 
worked in cross-stitch upon canvas, diapers are 
over-stitched in silk. Thus treated, the German 

wool-work loses its objectionable flatness, and 
gains great brilliancy. While on the subject of 
German wool-work, we would add that should the 
reader continue to practice it, in preference to 
better styles of embroidery, that though it is capa 
ble of being enriched as above, it is a method ol 
work which is, artistically speaking, exceeding!; 
limited, and really fitted for the production of flat 
patterns only, such as geometrical designs or con 
ventional ornaments. In cross-stitch it is impos- 
sible to shade objects tn such a manner as to give 
them any satisfactory resemblance to nature, and 
the representations of animals and flowers which 
have been attempted in it are as numerous as they 
have been lamentable failures, and ought merely 
to be preserved as examples of bad taste. 

In appliqui, which is a very ancient and always 
a favorite method of embroidery, broad, flat masses 
of color are gained by fixing one fabric over 
another. For appliqui the materials chosen are 
usually velvet, silk, cloth, and cloth of gold or 
silver; when velvet is used, it should always be 
silk velvet. It may be employed for a variety of 
purposes, such as cushions, curtains, etc., and 
though shading cannot be attempted in it, it pro- 
duces rich and fine effects in flat patterns. 

_ _ _ ^_ _jfltt&. 

Fiu. 5.— Work-Baskj 

The ordinary method of preparing the material 
is by stretching some thin gray holland on a 


common embroidery -frame and covering it evenly 
with paste. The paste used by shoemakers, and 

Fig. 6.— Lamp- M. 

Gay Embroidery. 

to be bought from them, will do, but in the sec- 
tion which we shall devote to materials a recipe 
for proper embroidery paste will be given. The 
material must be laid upon the holland and 
smoothed till it adheres evenly. It will require 
about twenty-four hours to dry, and after being 
removed from the frame the designs which are to 
be formed in the material may be traced upon the 
back of the holland, and cut out 
with a sharp pair of scissors. The 
above preparation refers more espe- 
cially to cloth, velvet, etc. ; for silk, 
while lawn is preferable, as a black 
and white starch should be used 
with it instead of paste; and in- 
deed for all white materials a white 
back-lining should be used. Dif- 
ferent parts of the design may of 
course be formed in different colors, 
each to be prepared in the same 
way. Being cut out, they have to 
be laid upon (he background, which 
is supposed to be of black or dark- 
purple or maroon cloth, and fastened 
to it around the edges with sewing- 
silk. There are two ordinary ways 
of edging the pieces laid on in 
appliqut; that which has the richest 
effect is bordering them with a 
moderately stiff cord, and sewing 
over this with silk. Gold-twist 
makes the most splendid bordering of this kind. 
The other is that which consists in working around 

the applied material with bright -colored silk in 
button-hole stitch. Considerable space must be 
left between the stitches to give them their full 

In ordinary fiat embroidery, no applied mate- 
rials, as of pieces of fabric, cord, or spangles, are 
used, nor is any part of the pattern raised by 
card-board, or other packing beneath it, and the 
design depends entirely for its effect upon the 
colored stitches used in it. This was the kind of 
work most in vogue in the days of our grand- 
mothers, and it is, as it admits of shading, the 
most delicate and beautiful, if not the most strik- 
ing, kind. The beautiful Eastern embroidery — 
Indian, Chinese, and Japanese — is mostly of this 
class, and may, in arrangements of color, form 
good examples for imitation. 

In raised embroidery the different substances 
are placed over the materials, to give the effect 
of relief to the stitches. An improved modern 
method of working is by taking card-board, — that 
known as thin mounting-board is good, — tracing 
upon it the design to be raised, and cutting it 
out, care being taken to leave sufficient points of 
attachment in the more delicate parts of the 
design. The pieces of card have then to be sewn 

strongly in their places, upon the material which 
is to form the ground, with cotton, and the bits 



of card-board left for support cut away. If the 
design is to be still further raised, a line of even 
twine should be sewn down over the centre of the 
figure, and over this a silk or gold thread can be 
worked. More than one row of twine should not 
be used, or the effect will be spoiled; and the 
thickness of it must depend upon the amount of 
relief required. If the figure is to be worked in 
gold or gold color, the card beneath it should be 
colored with gamboge. 

Of all the stitches used in embroidery, the long- 
stitch is that in most general use, and all shaded 

silk-work is done. The last thing is to put a neat 
and careful outline to the leaves. In shaded work, 
the upper side of the design, upon which the light 
would be supposed to fall, should be worked in 
the lightest shade, and the high lights should not 
be so dark by four degrees as those shades next to 

In leaves, scrolls, or conventional forms, a small 
number of shades, and these arbitrarily, used, look 
best, but more may be introduced with good 
effect in draperies. The long-stitch in shading is 
readily understood, while the satin stitch is some- 

work should be dor.c in it. In the somewhat ) 
fashionable " Breton work," however, shaded j 
forms are filled in with short stitches taken pro- 
miscuously, instead of long-stitch. In using it, 
all stitches should be laken from the outside edge , 
of the figure, and worked toward the centre. In j 
a figure of equal sides, the first stitch should be ! 
taken from the very centre of the edge, and the 
work be. proceeded with from first one and then 
the other side of this stitch. In working leaves 
and scrolls, the stitches ought invariably to be 
taken in a slanting direction. The lighter parts 
of the leaves are first worked in from ihe edges, 
and the darker shades toward the central veins 
filled in afterward, the veins themselves being put 
in last ; gold should not be applied till after the I 

what similarly made, only it is most adapted for 
making raised leaves, etc. The chain-stitch, which 
is an imitation of the old tambour-stitch, is formed 
by carrying the thread at the back of the fabric, 
catching it through, and laying it along the sur- 
face with a fine crochet-hook, which, is, under a 
modern name, the same instrument as the old 
tambour- needle. The basket-stitch is formed by 
laying any even number of rows of twine, from 
four upward, upon the foundation, and securing 
them there; the silk, etc., is carried over these, 
two at a time. This is useful for borders. Couch- 
ing was much used in old work. Passing or gold 
thread is frequently applied in this way, being 
laid over the ground and secured by short stitches 
in colored silk over each single thread. These 



last are sometimes introduced promiscuously; 
sometimes so arranged as to form a variety of 
diapers and patterns. Sometimes, instead of these 
short stitches passing over every thread, the couch- 
ing is accomplished by other threads crossing at 
right angles, and secured by stitches. The twist- 
stitch is produced by working equal stitches diag- 
onally, one behind the other, on an even line. 

French knots are frequently useful and pretty 
for forming the centres of flowers and in diapers. 
They are made by first bringing the needle through 
the material, taking the thread and holding it with 
the left hand midway between the needle and 
work, and with the right hand twisting the needle 
around the silk in such a manner as to form a 
loop ; this having been slipped down to the point 
of the needle, the latter can be repassed through 
the stuff clo^e to the place where it came through, 
and while it is drawn down by the right hand the 
silk is held by the left, till the loop settles into a 
knot upon the surface. 

Nearly all embroidery is, when circumstances 
will permit, best worked when stretched in a 
frame, and length? which are too great to be 
stretched at one time may be put in the frame in 
successive pieces. The best kind of frame for 
canvas is one in which the material is secured by 
blunt points, attached to the sides and covered 
with a wooden bar, cut half round, and having a 
groove, of the same width as the points, running 
along it ; the canvas is stretched and the sides 
secured by screws. But all other materials would 
be injured by being fixed by such points, and 
must, therefore, be secured to the frame by being 
sewn to webbing. A frame capable of holding a 
piece of work three feet square is a convenient 
size. It is better that the frame should exceed 
the size of the work by some inches, and it is well 
to secure a good purchase, tbat the material should 
not be sewn to the extreme end of the webbing 
on either side. The selvage sides of the material 
should be sewn to the webbing, so as to leave an 
equal space at either end, with strong, double 
thread, in stitches of six to the inch, and a piece 
of tape to secure them, stitched along the woof 
ends of the material. The frame is then put to- 
gether, stretched, and secured by its pegs, and the 
woof ends are in their turn secured by sewing 
through the tape and over the opposite bars with 

In working at the frame, there will, at first, be 

some difficulty experienced in using the left hand 
simultaneously with the right, and particularly in 
bringing up the needle from beneath in the exact 
spot. The power of doing this can only be at- 
tained by perseverance, and the beginner should 
practice till the needle can be used as well with 
one hand as the other. The worker should sit in 
as upright a position as possible, and the frame 
should be fixed accordingly ; as regards light, a 
side-light is best. In doing long-stitch or gold- 
bullion embroidery, both hands are rarely required 
above the frame ; in couching, one hand guides 
the silk along the material, while the other sews it 
down, and tn applying nearly all edging-cords 
the hands are occupied in the same way. While 
working with floss-silk it is necessary to keep the 
hands' smooth, or they will catch it; and it is not 
well, for the same reason, to wear rings. Perfect 
cleanliness o I the hands is, of .course, indispensable. 

The implements required are needles, which 
should be large in proportion to the silk they 
have to carry, and with large, round eyes ; from 
7 to 9 are the sizes most in use, the former for 
sewing-silks, and the latter for crochet and other 
coarse silks. Nos. 8, 9, and 10 are good sizes for 
gold bullion. Pins of a small size will be found 
requisite. As both hands are employed, two plain 
silver thimbles should be provided, scissors, etc. 
A stiletto will be needed, and a steel piercer 
rounded and pointed at the end, and then be- 
coming flat-sided, will be useful for regulating 
gold bullion, passing, pearl-purl, etc. 

The embroidery-paste, of which we have already 
spoken, is made by adding to three tablespoon fuls 
of flour as much rosin as will lie on a shilling, 
mixing them smoothly in a pint of water, stirring 
them till they boil, and allowing them to boil ^vt 
minutes, when the paste should be turned out and 
left till cold. 

The silks to be used are floss, Dacca, Berlin, 
three- cord crochet-twist, purse-silk, and seedings. 
In the best old-work, floss is the silk chiefly em- 
ployed, either in vertical lines kept down by cross 
rows of fine gold thread, or split fine for the flesh 
and hair; sometimes a thick line of it is used for 
outlines, while at others rows of twisted silk sewn 
down with it are used for that purpose. Dacca 
is a floss-silk, so made as to be easily divided into 
two filaments or plies, which can again be sub- 
divided to any extent which is necessary, besides 
being more easily split than floss. Dacca is made 



in more shades; the English is best, the French 
being deficient in softness and brilliancy. Berlin 
has a smooth, loose twist, and is well adapted for 
flat masses of color, as also for scrolls and leaves. 
Three-cord is a close-twisted silk of three plies, 
and best simulates gold bullion. The apricot 
shade is very beautiful, but, as it turns white, the 
more metallic yellows are to be used in prefer- 
ence. Three cord is made in other colors than 
gold, but not in such variety as Dacca or Berlin ; 
the French is not equal to the English ; crochet - 
twist is also of three plies, but is coarser and less 
tightly twisted than the above. It is most valuable 
for large designs to be used in imitation of gold, 
and may be either applied in modern embrodiery 
over card, or couched, either single or double, by 
stitches of purse-silk, or it may be used as a sub- 
stitute for cord in edging applique. 

Purse-silks are of three sizes, — coarse, medium, 
and fine. The first is used in places where three- 
cord would be too clumsy ; the second, when a 
strong, even, and tolerably fine silk is needed ; 
the third, for such purposes as couching crochet- 
silk on an even surface. In sewing-silk there is 
only one first-class quality, which should always 
be used (draper's silk on reels is valueless), and 
the best is bought in hanks of from half an ounce 
to an ounce. Passing, that is, gold thread, should 
be couched with sewing-silk. 

Where twist-silk is being used, it is not possible 
to fill gaps with extra stitches, as in using floss; 
every stitch must, therefore, be laid with regularity, 
the piercer being constantly used to keep it in 
place ; care should be taken that the stitches are 
of uniform tightness, and a needleful should never 
be gone on with when the silk dulls or strains, 
but another should be taken at once. A large- 
eyed needle should be used, and never too great 
a length of silk; twenty-seven inches is a very 
good length for a needleful. 

Pearl- purl is gold cord, which resembles a close 
string of beads, and is used for edging bullion 
embroidery ; it should be sewn down with single 
silk, previously waxed, and the stitches concealed. 
Spangles are frequently useful for enriching em- 
broidery ; they are made both flat and concave, 
the latter have the best effect. Passing is a bright, 
smooth thread, formed by silver-gilt wire spun 
round yellow silk. Generally speaking, it should 
not be pulled through the material, but should be 
couched and sewn down with colored silk. 

At the present day an important employment for 
the various kinds of embroidery we have described 
is the decoration of church furniture, for which, 
indeed, such methods of work are alone properly 
applicable. The number of domestic purposes to 
which also it is now growing fashionable to apply 
them is very large, some of the most favorite 
being as borders for curtains and table-cloths, as 
hangings for mantle-pieces, and in narrow strips, 
to be affixed to various articles of furniture. 

Well knowing that there are many workers in 
designs of different classes of art needlework, 
such as crocheting and embroidering, who are 
very often at a loss for some object on which to 
exercise their skill, we shall give as an addition to 
this article some appropriate designs, which are 
not only beautiful when properly w.orked, but 
highly ornamental and useful. 

The first subject we shall present is that of a 
chaise-lounge cover, as exemplified by our illus- 
tration (Fig. i). This is a very beautiful design, 
and makes a very handsome decoration for parlor 
or sitting-room. It is composed of seven alter 
nate stripes of dark-green satin and black velvet. 
The velvet stripes are embroidered handsomely in 
appliqid. The model from which this is taken 
has a ground of red velvet, with blue and green 
satin figures festooned with gold cord. The ten- 
drils of the vine are worked in old-gold. The 
corollas should be filled with old-gold in flat or 
satin stitch. The stems and tendrils are embroid- 
ered in satin and stitch. The satin stripes are 
quilted in diamonds one inch in size. The lining 
of the same satin is quilted in larger diamonds. 
The cover is edged with a handsome cord. 

The next design is a foot-stool in velvet applique 
embroidery (Fig. 2). The stool is five inches 
high, and is embroidered on velvet, in applique, 
with filoselle silk, in" chain, stem, and satin 
stitch. The colors should be chosen so as to have 
them harmonize with your furniture; the twisted 
fringe should have the same color as the ground 
part, while the draped part has the colors of the 

Fig. 3 represents a workstand with embroidered 
lambrequin. The body of the stand is a black 
cane, with a lid at the top and a small basket at 
the bottom. Lined with wine-colored silk, and 
having a bag arrangement for the lid of the lower 
basket. The lambrequin is made of silk. The 
ground is copper-colored satin, with a dark velvet 



appliqut, which is bordered with chenille or silk 
cord. It is advisable to baste paper under the 
satin, and put it on an embroidery-frame to work 
it. Crewell-ball fringes are put around the lower 
basket; also a strong red and black silk cord ; put 
balls on the lid, and balls and cord on the handle; 
and also edge the lambrequin with fringe. 

Fig. 4 represents a piano-chair with embroid- 
ered stripe. A black ebony frame covered with 
puffed pale-blue satin, with embroidered black 
velvet stripe in the centre. Handsome fringe 
border six inches in depth, having colors used in 
the embroidery. Any stripe of the many styles 
shown in appliqut and tapestry embroidery, es- 
pecially gilt -cord embroidery done in gobelin 
stitch, may be used. 

Fig. 5 represents a work-basket in cross-stitch 
embroidery. This is of coarse brown wicker-work 
twelve inches long, ten inches wide, and seven 
inches high. A cross stitch embroidery on aida 
canvas trims the basket all round. The upper 
edge has a ball-trimming, the color of which must 
match the ground-color of the embroidery. The 
cover has in the middle a flat cushion six inches 
square, which is covered with a cross-stitch em- 
broidery on aida canvas. The cushion and cover 
are finished off with a colored woven border three 
inches wide; tassels of divers colors trim the 
lower part of the basket. 

Fig. 6 represents a lamp-mat with Spanish lace 
embroidery. Embroider dark plush velvet or 
cloth with light colors with Spanish lace stitch. 
The figures must be cut out of fine yellow linen, 
and then pasted on dark olive-green plush, which 
has been stretched over a frame. The flowers and 
leaves are worked in split filoselle silk ; the edges 
and bars are worked with gold thread. The 
corner flower is worked in shaded blue, the centre 
of the mat is of very dark- blue velvet, and is 
joined to the other by old-gold silk cords. The 
mat is edged with crewel-balls, made of colors 
used in the embroidery. 

Fig. 7 represents a cushion with colored em- 
broidery material. Dark olive plush for the 

cushion, with a strong piece of linen pasted on 
the back. Drawn over an embroidery-frame, 
apply the appliqut figure of satin and velvet. Then 
embroider, raise the satin -stitch figures by work- 
ing over card-board, as you do in gold embroid- 
ery. In the outer covers have an arabesque pat- 
tern done with triple cord, the middle of which is 
gold, the outside couleur du mode and corinth silk 
cords; around this is fastened corinth satin ap- 
pliqut with the same shade of chenille on the top. 
Half of this is couleur du mode (arabesque) done 
with silk cord and fastened with corinth chenille, 
with the lower half almost covered with pale-blue 
silk satin-stitch embroidery, with two leaf-like 
corinth chenille figures between. Three gold 
cords fastened with stitches across them edge the 
different figures, and around a small embroidered 
leaf of blue silk ; and make the stem of that leaf. 
The stems are divided by an appliqut of corinth 

I velvet, which is worked in satin-stitch in olive- 

1 green ; finish that border with couleur du mode 
and gold border. The centre of the cushion is 
corinth velvet appliqut with satin stitch leaf of 
olive green, with pale-blue centre, having gold 
cord drawn over the centre, and pale-blue figure 
having tendril, stem, etc., of triple gold cord. 
Triple gold cord is placed around the velvet ap- 
pliqut. Leave a five-inch- wide border of the 

, velvet, and in the centre and corners of each side 

; fasten a gay tassel. 

Fig. 8 represents a border in light embroidery. 
Material, stamped or woven goods. As seen in 

1 the figure, this pattern is woven in a velvet stripe, 

I five inches wide; and the pattern is marked in 
split filoselle, in loose stem or back stitch, the 

1 broader parts embroidered with gold thread in 
long-stitch. The pattern has a ground of dark- 
olive, the figures red, black, light olive, green, 
and white ; they are edged with a lighter or 
darker shade of the same color. An inch-wide 
border of old-gold hides the joining of the velvet 

| stripe, and the material used to finish the work. 
The fancy stitches for the border are done in blue 

'. and red silk alternately. 

The only distinctions in society which should 
be recognized are those of the soul, of strong 
principle, of incorruptible integrity, of useful- 
ness, of cultivated intellect, of fidelity in seeking 
for truth. 

Books are standing counselors and preachers, 
always at hand, and always disinterested ; having 
this advantage over oral instructors, that they 
are ready to repeat their lessons as often as we 





By Charles Stokes Wayne. 


The three days intervening between the 21st of 
December and Christmas glide very quickly by. 
Haverholme seems to have taken the place formerly 
occupied by Tracey, and now he and Miss Howard 
are inseparable. He calls her " Cousin Fanny" 
invariably, and she seems rather to enjoy it, and 
once in awhile says "Cousin Philip," apparently 
unmindful that he is really no relative. He has 
taken her to the theatre where Miss Neilson is 
playing "Juliet," and has persisted in making 
such remarks as "See how she leans her cheek 
upon her hand ! Oh that I were a glove upon that 
hand, that I might touch that cheek !" and apply- 
ing them to her. He has come to the conclusion 
at last that she does not care particularly for 
Tracey, and that Tracey is not particularly fond of 
her; but still George Darley persists in troubling 
him. The name he considers a sort of bugbear, 
and though he longs to ask her what Darley is 
like, whether he is handsome, whether he is very 
clever, and most of all, whether she is really en- 
gaged to him, yet he shrinks from approaching 
the subject. Christmas morning, however, as they 
are sitting together in the Adair pew at St. Mark's, 
he puts an end to his surmises, his doubts, and his 
fears; and this is how it comes about : 

The party, with the exception of Mrs. Sedge- 
wick, who prefers remaining at home to finish 
one of Ouida's art novels, all go to eleven-o'clock 
service. Tracey and Miss Adair, Young Sedge- 
wick and Mrs. Harrison, Mr. Harrison and Mrs. 
Adair, Colonel Banks and Miss Sedgewick, and 
Haverholme and Miss Howard : thus two by two 
they walk around to the fashionable St. Mark's, 
and thus they take their seats in the two pews 
which the house of Adair deems it necessary to 
rent, and which — excepting on such occasions as 
this — are rrever filled from January to December. 
The church is looking very gay and joyous this 
white Christmas morning. The light that falls in 
many bright colors through the gorgeous saints 
that occupy each window transforms the gray 
holly-twined pillars into variegated columns. The 
red and blue and green and gold decorations of 
Vol. XVI.— 4 

the chancel, with the texts so well known and so 
devoutly expected at each succeeding Christmas, — 
"Unto us a child is born, unto us a son is given," 
" On earth peace, good -will to men," — and alphas 
and omegas, sacred monograms and crosses of all 
shapes and sizes, together with the usual number 
of holly-wreaths and festoons, showing the bright 
red berries among the rich green leaves, all go to 
make up the -holiday dress of God's temple. 

"How nicely it is decorated!" says Fanny, 
turning to Philip ; " how well the texts are made ! 
and how full and round the wreaths are !" 

"Very nicely decorated," replies Haverholme; 
"I could'nt have done it better myself," with a 
weak attempt at humor. 

"Nor I. You should see our church at home. 
The rector's daughter and I have all the work to 
do, and it is no fun, I can tell you." 

" How. will they get on without you this year?" 
asks Philip. 

"Oh, my sister has volunteered; and th.en 
George will help, too, I suppose." 

George again ! If she would only say Mr. Dar- 
ley, Philip would feel ever so much better; but it is 
this familiarity that tells him these two must be 
very, very intimate. 

" What a fine church this would be to be married 
in," he remarks, darting at the subject that is now 
ever uppermost in his mind, and seems to be in- 
separably joined with that name of " George." 

"Just the place I should like," adds Fanny, 
laughing ; " I can imagine myself standing before 
the altar there, and the rector reading the cere- 

"And who do you imagine beside you?" he 
asks, anxiously, thinking that she may answer 
him, and yet knowing that she will not. 

" Impertinent again," she replies, with a smile. 
"I will not tell even my Cousin Philip that." 

And then, almost before he knows it, he has 
blurted out the question : 

"Is it George Darley?" 

"George Darley!" she exclaims, in surprise. 
"Good gracious, no! Do you suppose I want to 
marry my sister's husband?" 



The ball at the Adair mansion is at its height. 
In ten minutes more it will be midnight, and in 
spite of the wish of many young people that this 
" Christmas would stay till another is here, M in 
ten short minutes it will have gone, followed in 
the train of its eighteen hundred and seventy odd 
ancestors, like them never to return. Its grave, 
however, will be a green spot in the memory of 
many, and especially so in that of Haverholme. 
All day he has been exuberantly happy. Since 
that announcement of Miss Howard's in church 
this morning, that George Darley is a married 
man, and only her brother-in-law instead of her 
lover, the dark cloud that has for weeks been 
hanging ominously over his horizon has rolled 
away, and his mind is once more at ease. As he 
stands now leaning against a door-post, looking at 
the dancers as they go whirling up and down the 
long drawing-room, which is one blaze of light, 
his face is radiant with joy. He has danced twice 
with Fanny Howard ; but as he considers dancing 
rather a bore, he has refrained from asking any 
one else, and has spent most of the evening as a 
wall-flower. There is a branch of mistletoe on 
the chandelier in front of him, and beneath it is a 
circle which no lady seems inclined to enter. He 
notices this fact, and wonders whether it is not 
more for appearance's sake than because the ladies 
do not like to be kissed that they are so studiously 
avoiding it. Even as he so thinks, the dancing 
ceases, and he sees her whose very presence has 
grown to be a joy to him crossing the room alone. 
She is dressed in white, a thin, gauzy material, 
and silk combined, the purity of which is so be- 
coming that she looks, if possible, more beautiful 
than usual, and the soft creamy whiteness of her 
bare arms and neck, round and full, proclaim her 
youth. She enters the charmed circle ; she passes 
under the chandelier and the shunned mistletoe, 
seemingly unconscious of the temptation she is 
causing several men who are looking admiringly 
after her. As she steps under the green leaves, 
by some chance Fred Tracey appears at her side. 
There is no rush, no hurry, but by some circum- 
stance he happens to be there at the moment. 
He is not slow to understand the situation, and in 
an instant his arm is about Miss Howard's waist, 
and before she can resent the liberty, he has im- 
printed a burning kiss on the fair velvet of her 

At this there is an audible laugh from the people 

in that part of the room, who have been expecting 
something of the kind all the evening, and are 
now at last satisfied. Miss Howard, who for the 
moment had altogether forgotten the presence of 
the mistletoe, blushes red as a rose. Haverholme's 
smiling countenance changes in an instant. His 
eyes flash angrily as he crosses the room, and 
making straight for Tracey, catches him roughly 
by the lapel of his coat. 

" How dare you ?" he exclaims, excitedly. " I 
took you for a gentleman, but. you have proved 
yourself quite the reverse;" and then turning to 
Fanny, he offers her his arm, and leads her, as 
quickly as possible, away. Tracey stands for a 
moment speechless ; he is rather surprised by 
Haverholme's action, and yet he has it notin his 
heart to blame him. He admits to himself that 
he was wrong. He is brought to a consciousness 
of his position by the appearance of Sedgewick 
and Colonel Banks, who, seeing a crowd has col- 
lected, have come up to ascertain what is the 

" What's the row, Fred ?" asks the young gen- 
tleman, with all the familiarity born of a collegi- 
ate education; "we just met Phil Haverholme 
with a face as red as a turkey-cock's, and to all 
appearance as mad as a hatter." 

"Oh," replies Tracey, nonchalantly, recover- 
ing his usual composure, " I only took my due, 
but he seems to have taken it as a personal in- 

"How," asks the colonel, who saw nothing of 
the affair, and is at a loss to understand these re- 
marks — " how took your due?" 

" He kissed a lady who was under the mistletoe," 
rudely volunteers a youth who is standing by and 
listening to the conversation, "and Mr. Haver- 
holme didn't seem to like it." 

"Ah! who was it, Tracey, old man?" asks 
Sedgewick. " Miss Howard, eh ?" 

Tracey nods assent. 

"And Haverholme took it to heart, did he?" 
remarks Banks, laughing jovially. " Ha, ha ! 
very foolish of him, to be sure ; but, then, Tracey, 
my dear fellow, you must remember that is a 
tender spot with Phil. He is pretty far gone." 

" Never mind, old man. Come have some sherry 
on the strength of it," suggests Sedgewick, and 
the three stroll off together. 

Haverholme is much too angry with Tracey to 
allow himself to speak to Miss Howard for several 



moments. Down the drawing-room he leads her, 
past groups of whispering people, who have heard 
something of the commotion, but not knowing 
positively what it was about, are putting their 
heads together and giving the results of their sur- 
mises. His face is still dark with passion, and all 
who see him now and remember his expression of 
a few moments ago know that, whatever was the 
cause of the excitement, Mr. Haverholme has been 
greatly annoyed by it. When they have quitted 
the room, and turned into a rather dimly-lit pas- 
sage that leads to the conservatory, which, strange 
to say, is entirely unoccupied, Philip speaks : 

" I must apologize for the rudeness of my guest," 
he says, in a tone that tells how deeply this inci- 
dent has moved him; "it was a performance I 
thought him the last man to attempt, — a most un- 
gentlemanly piece of impertinence.' ' 

" Oh, don't think so very badly of him," pleads 
Fanny, rather frightened at the angry sparkle in 
the man's eyes. "I suppose it was much my 
fault ; I should not have walked under it." 

'• You should walk where you please. To begin 
with, it was a childish bit of nonsense to put that 
beastly mistletoe there at all; I believe it was 
some of Sedgewick's doing, the young fool ; but 
for any one to take advantage of it was extremely 
caddish. 1 ' 

"Oh, pray don't be so angry," she urges. "I 
don't sp very much mind, really ; it was only 
for " 

" You don't much mind," he repeats, sharply, 
interrupting her. " Do you mean that you enjoy 
being kissed in that manner by any Tom, Dick, or 
Harry that chooses to do it?" 

" Oh, no, no; you misunderstand me. Of course, 
I disliked it; I was very much vexed at Mr. 
Tracey, and all that, but I do not care so much as 
to make any— -fuss about it," she concludes at last, 
vainly seeking for a more elegant word to express 

"Well, then, /do." 

They have entered the conservatory now, where 
the cool dampness that the fountain gives to the 
air is quite refreshing. The apartment is full of 
the soft, balmy odor of flowers ; the light is brighter 
than in the passage, but yet mellow and subdued. 
There are a few couples sitting or standing about 
among the numerous tropical plants with their 
mammoth shapely leaves. As they enter, the 
music commences again. It is a galop this time. 

"Do you know," exclaims Fanny, seriously, 
after looking at her card — "do you know I am 
engaged to Mr. Tracey for this?" 

"Are you?" replies Philip, unconcernedly. 
"You need not mind; he has forfeited all his 
claims. Won't you sit down?" pointing to a 
cushioned bench almost hidden among the tall, 
waving leaves of a species of palm. " He can 
find you here if he chooses to come ; but take my 
word for it, he will not dare to show his face. I 
hope he has enough gentlemanliness left to be 
ashamed of what he has done." 

To this Fanny makes no reply, but takes the 
seat pointed out to her. Philip seats himself 
beside her. At the first squeaking of the violins 
those who were in the conservatory when Philip 
and Fanny entered rushed madly for the draw- 
ing-room, as if never before had they had an 
opportunity to galop. 

"Do you know," asks Philip, when they are 
quite alone — and, as he speaks, the anger that has 
until now held full sway over his countenance 
vanishes as a mist — "do you know why I was so 

" I have not the faintest idea, except that you 
thought it rude and ungentlemanly." 

"But do you suppose," he continues, looking 
down into her upturned face, — he is quite happy 
again now, — " that I should have cared so much 
if it had been any one else — if it had been Miss 
Sedgewick, for instance?" 

"I suppose so," Fanny answers, innocently, but 
nevertheless dropping her eyes under his ardent 
gaze; "why should you not ?" 

" Ah ! why? Do you really care to know?" 

'•'Well," she replies, hesitatingly, — she knows 
full well what his answer will be; his face has told 
her plainly enough, and she is naturally loath to 
make such a bid for the declaration, — " not par- 
ticularly. I only asked for curiosity's sake." 

"I will tell you, nevertheless," catching her 
small, downy white hand in his ; " it is because I 

She makes a faint effort to withdraw her hand, 
but he holds it tightly, yet gently, in his clasp. 

"You should not speak in that way," she says, 
her face burning with hot, crimson blushes; "and 
please let go my hand." 

Philip is rather taken aback at this reception 
of his love : he had expected something so en 
tirely different ; but then perhaps his own excited 



manner has something to do with it, and calming 
himself as best he can he goes on, in a low 
voice, speaking quite kindly, tenderly, even 

"I know I am not much of a prize; I have 
scarcely enough to support a wife comfortably on, 
but I have my profession ; and I promise you you 
shall never want. Fanny," he pleads, earnestly, 
"have you not seen all along that I loved you? 
For God's sake, don't refuse me now ! I could 
not stand it; I love you madly, desperately. You 
will be my wife, won't you?" 

Her head is bent low ; not a word escapes her 

" Won't you come to me? Can't you love me 
just a little?" he urges, placing his arm about her 
waist and gently drawing her toward him. 

Her answer is to bury her face in his bosom 
and to burst into tears. The next instant his 
other arm is around her, and he is holding her 
closely to his breast. 

"Thank God!" he murmurs, joyously; " you 
are my own, my wife, myangel!" 

Fcr one moment she lies in his embrace, sob- 
bing great tears of joy. When she turns her face, 
all shining with love, up to his, she meets the 
glad love-light of his eyes. Then he takes one, 
two, three long, lingering kisses from those ripe, 
red lips. . 

She neither forbids him, nor tries to escape. 
She is supremely, contentedly happy ; and he, 
blast as he is, acknowledges to himself that never 
before has he known pleasure. The bliss of feel- 
ing and knowing that the love of a young, beauti- 
ful, and pure woman is his, that her heart beats 
for him and for him only, and that she has paid 
him the greatest compliment it is possible for 
woman to pay to man, in promising to become 
his wife, surpasses every other joy that this fair 
earth can offer. 

In silence they sit together, he with his one 
arm about her, his other hand clasping hers, and 

she with her head lying lovingly upon his shoul- 
der. There is no sound but the cool plash, plash, 
of the fountain, and the merry music of the or- 
chestra in the drawing-room. Presently the music 
stops. Full well they know that in a moment 
there will be an influx of heated dancers, men 
and women sentimentally billing and cooing, des- 
perately flirting, which reems like sacrilege when 
compared with their honest, holy passion. 

Even as they think so, a man is heard approach- 
ing. A man it must be, for he is whistling, softly, 
to be sure, but then nevertheless it is a man's 

In an instant Fanny is sitting erect and decor- 
ous. Philip's hands are idly playing with each 
other, matching fingers and twisting rings. He 
looks up to get a glimpse'of the intruder. To his 
surprise it is Tracey, and he is alone. All the 
anger against him which filled his heart fifteen 
minutes ago has been expelled, forced out by the 
love he. bears for his country cousin, which has 
brought with it a love for all mankind. Haver- 
holme is at peace with the world. Not one spark 
of animosity, not the faintest ill-will, does he feel 
for any one. He is friends with all men. Through 
the leaves they can see Tracey without being seen. 

"Let us go to him," says Philip. "Come, I 
am not angry now." 

" You have forgiven him?" asks the fair girl at 
his side, as she rises; "so have I. Who knows? 
Had it not been for him, we might not have been 
so happy." 

And so together they go toward him; him who, 
unmindful of that which he was doing, only has- 
tened their happiness when seeming to destroy it. 

Together, as they shall go through life here- 
after, each confidently happy in the possession of 
the other's love, full of that transcendant joy that 
comes to all of us once, — and once only in a life- 
time, — they go, he and she : Philip Haverholme 
and his Country Cousin. 


The study of truth is perpetually joined with 
the love of virtue; for there is no virtue which 
derives not its original from truth. 

All our mental perceptions suggest their oppo- 
sites, — the finite, the infinite ; the seen, the un- 
seen; time, eternity; creation, a God. 

Idleness is the parent of every vice ; but well- 
directed activity is the source of every laudable 
pursuit and worldly attainment. 

A human heart throbs beneath the beggar's 
gabardine : it is no more than this that stirs with 
its beating the prince's mantle. 




By Marian H. Ford. 

It is possible for a home to be pleasant and 
cheery, to be so rich in sweet influences that one 
remembers it ever as the dearest spot upon earth, 
without containing a single object that is really 
beautiful,* without appealing in the least to one's 
higher aesthetic tastes. Yet in this nineteenth 
century a home which is merely "good," a moral 
home, yes, a "kind" home, does not fulfill every 
requisite need for perfection. We are gradually 
becoming round creatures. The phrenological 
part of us, which once developed in knobs and 
bunches of aggressive morality, intellect, or aes- 
theticism, is being padded into a more level and 
evenly distributed surface by the culture of a thou- 
sand heretofore neglected qualities which have 
suddenly been recognized as exerting a great 
influence upon temperament. 

We are no longer contented with being simply 
"good," but realize that goodness without an 
added touch of wisdom is rather narrow and un- 
satisfactory. Goodness and wisdom, moreover, are 
possessions which one cannot put on and take off 
like a garment. They must grow slowly from 
deep-lying roots, be absorbed, as it were, from 
one's circumstances and surroundings. 

The roof-tree, therefore, should cease to be a spot 
where one merely hangs up the family portraits 
and darns the stocking, where the beefsteak is 
broiled, the children are spanked, the newspaper 
is read, and the wife reproved for her lack of 
economy. It becomes a place, on the contrary, 
where the senses are educated and trained by the 
constant influence of soft harmonious colors, cor- 
rect forms, and artistic decoration, where the 
mind is refreshed by the presence of necessaries 
which not only satisfy the demands of the body, 
but stimulate the intellectual tastes as well. 

A home should be as little like a school-house as 
possible, yet full of things which attract the eyes 
and minds of the children as they grow up, and 
not only provide instruction for them, but silently 
influence their taste. Of course, the means of a 
family do much toward regulating such matters; 
but very limited means, if rightly expended, can 
do much toward beautifying plain houses, and 

adorning them with those little touches which 
indicate refinement. 

The bugbear which frequently stalks before the 
eyes and obscures the taste of the housewife is 
furniture. Her house must be filled with chairs 
to sit on, tables to hold albums and family Bibles, 
with bureaus and beds, with everything, in fact, 
which ministers to the needs of material man. 
And having wooed, all these articles into her 
domicile, she seats herself in the traditional rock- 
ing-chair, serene in the consciousness that her 
house is furnished, and well furnished. 

But there are more things in the philosophy of 
God than some women can dream of. One must 
have beds, it is true, and to insure healthful sleep 
they must be comfortable ; one must sit down 
also, must eat, but these are not the only essential 
things. Having provided for them, one has only 
begun to furnish the house, and this is a point 
which should always be kept in view ; for if one 
realizes its truth, the purchase-money to be ap- 
plied to sordid comforts may be so economized 
as to include other necessaries. For instance, in 
furnishing the sitting-room, if one were to choose 
between a carpet for the floor and a small copy of 
some piece of antique sculpture, such as the Melea- 
ger, or a sleeping faun, or Diana, any of which 
would delight the children, we would say by all 
means take one of the latter and stain the floor; 
for this is a case where one may distribute the 
purchase-money and gain food for the higher man 
without loss of physical comfort. 

A home can be made pretty in these days at 
very slight expense, for there are all sorts of cheap 
and artistic materials, such as cretonnes, oiled 
calicoes, colored Canton flannels, cheese-cloths, 
etc., which it only requires good taste to turn 
into very effective decorations. Most women, if 
they choose, can do their own upholstering as 
easily, or more easily in fact, as their dress- 
making, and tKe satisfactory result of a little extra 
labor will astonish those who have not tried it. 

Keeping a few points in view, it is by no means 
impossible to transform an ordinary apartment 
into an interior which is refreshing to the eye and 



stimulating to the taste. The most important of 
these points is wall-surface. Many persons have 
an idea that the floor of a room is the part which 
needs furnishing, and that after they have so cov- 
ered it with lumber in the shape of chairs and 
tables that one can scarcely find one's way about, 
the apartment is complete. Never did a more 
pernicious blunder mislead the taste. 

The walls of a room are the fields in* which the 
decorator must work. Let the chairs and tables 
be as pretty and unobtrusive as possible, and do 
not tolerate their appearance except as they are 
absolutely necessary. Never allow a table to 
stand in a room simply because it is a table. 
Unless it holds something beautiful, or is in con- 
stant use, frown upon it, cast it forth without 
pity. In furnishing a room, we wish to gain as 
much as possible the sense of spaciousness, and to 
do this we must not allow the centre of the room 
to be filled with furniture. Beautify the corners, 
the alcoves, the walls, and leave us the middle of 
the room to breathe in. We do not command 
that the chairs be placed against the wall in 
straight rows, but merely that they shall be torn 
from the defiant attitude they assume in most 
households, and taught humility. A chair is an 
article of use, not of beauty, and one should 
always make this distinction in arranging an in- 

The white walls of many American houses are 
the great drawback to decoration, and if pretty 
paper is too expensive, they can be covered to a 
great extent by soft-hued curtains, which, hung 
from metal rods, take the place of tapestry, and 
sometimes are even prettier in effect than paper. 
There is always danger, however, of having too 
many curtains in a room. One must obtain a 
diversified wall-surface, and yet the eye requires 
rest, so that the effect should not be too broken. 
Curtains at the windows are always more or less 
of an experiment. If the windows have blinds, 
they should usually remain uncurtained, or, if 
they are very numerous, one or two windows may 
be curtained. Windows without blinds always 
need some shade, grid in this case the curtains 
ought to be tolerably heavy, and are prettier if 
hung a little below the top of tKe window. All 
curtains which roll up and down are worthy only 
of deep curses. They never roll ; they are the 
homeliest things mankind ever invented, and they 
are so utterly devoid of recommendations of any 

sort that it is a mystery how they have gained 
such universal adoption. 

The question of color is of course highly impor- 
tant in the furnishing of a room. Many persons 
make the mistake of supposing that in order to 
gain an artistic effect a room should be furnished 
throughout in the same tint ; therefore they make 
desperate attempts to find carpets, curtains, and 
chairs in pure unadulterated browns, reds, or 
greens, producing results which are almost always 
intolerably ugly. To enter an apartment in which 
one sees nothing but bronze-green, for instance, 
or gendarme blue, is like being restricted entirely 
to the society of a man who has the toothache. 
It affects one like a misery from which there is no 
escape, and one feels as though a stripe of ardent 
yellow, or burning red somewhere, would be a 
godsend to the tired senses. A room should be 
like a flower-garden, shimmering with softly-con- 
trasted color, so that the effect of the apartment 
is that of blended lights, and one looks at a vase, 
a bright hanging, or a wall-painting* for the key- 
note which gives the fundamental* color. The 
deep, dull " Morris" colors will always be most 
satisfactory, and if the tints are carefully con- 
trasted, beautiful results can be obtained with 
inexpensive materials. 

Flowers are another important factor in deco- 
rative effects. Some one calls flowers the language 
of the earth, and it is fashionable to believe that 
they are beautiful under all circumstances. A 
flower in a pot is always at a disadvantage, how- 
ever. It pines for company, — for flowers are gre- 
garious creatures, — and when forced to grow alone, 
it lifts up its head forlornly, as if asking for sym- 
pathy. It is a difficult matter, therefore, to keep 
flowers in the house. They are so nearly allied to 
fresh air and sunshine, that it is hard to make them 
seem suitable in an apartment of average size. 

To be beautiful and satisfactory, flowers need 
freedom, warmth, and companionship. If grown 
in the house, they should be planted in boxes, 
where their roots can spread and intermingle, and 
where the blossoms are massed together into a 
sociable whole. There is no beauty in a shelf 
full of flower-pots, which fill up the window and 
obstruct the light. The plants they contain are a 
perennial source of trial to the housewife. In 
summer they ought to be out-of-doors, and in 
winter they look so cold that one sneezes at sight 
of them. They are always afflicted by bugs or a 



new species of worm, and if they bloom it is in 
such a heart-broken way that one snips off the 
blossoms to avert the melancholy they inspire. 

Yet one must have flowers in the house, and if 
one does not possess a bay-window, which can 
easily be transformed into a conservatory by the 
addition of a bank of earth and a hot-air pipe, 
there are certain plants which, grown in a large 
box and placed on a pretty stand, can be a source 
of constant refreshment. 

Plants kept in the house should be large* leaved 
and handsome like the calla, or fragrant like the 
English violet or mignonette. They must be in- 
dividual flowers, which have something definite to 
say ; for an insignificant blossom becomes as an- 
noying after a time as a stupid and uninteresting 
companion. A nondescript geranium in a pot 
affects one like a stray postage-stamp. One feels 
as though it must be labeled and stuck somewhere 
immediately. But a clump of sweet roses, stately 
callas, and fragrant violets, nodding and whisper- 
ing among themselves, are a source of daily in- 
spiration. "•We know all things," they always 
seem to say, "and we can give you just the 
thought which will comfort you." 

But after a room has been made resplendent in 
color and decoration, fragrant with blossoms, rich 
in artistic effects, as a place for human habitation, 
for domestic happiness, and daily culture, it still 
lacks a great deal. It fails to suggest that atmos- 
phere of comfort and coziness, that appearance of 
being used and enjoyed, which only books and 
pictures can impart ; books so arranged that they 
can be picked up without any laborious opening 
of doors or mounting of step-ladders; pictures 
which are beautiful, and at. the same time possess 
an individual interest for the owner. 

If people would only insist upon buying books 
and reading them, what a blessing it would be, 
not only for humanity in general, but the deco- 
rator in particular; for nothing is a more com- 
prehensive furnisher than a plenitude of books. 
' Their very presence educates the children, while 
it is much easier for a child to form what is called 
a "taste for reading" if he is surrounded by 
books and sees them constantly used by his 

As to pictures, most persons buy them for the 
purpose of decorating the walls, without a thought 
of the effect they may have upon the children's 
taste. If pictures are to be a part of the home, 
they should be such as the children may appreciate. 
Once let them form the habit of being interested 
in pictures, and the foundation of an apprecia- 
tive, artistic taste is laid. 

There are many pictures by the "old masters" 
which Goupil's beautiful photographs have made 
accessible to almost every one, and frequently they 
depict scenes which will delight even young chil- 
dren. Guido's "Aurora," for instance, with its 
prancing horses and baby torch-bearer, has been a 
source of amusement to countless boys, while Ru- 
bens's "Rape of two Women by Castor and Pol- 
lux," Titian's "Christ and the Tribute-Money," 
Rembrandt's "Rape of Ganymede," Murillo's 
pictures of beggar-boys, and others which are 
equally desirable, will attract any child who is 
fond of pictures, not only from the dramatic 
action they portray, but from the stories con- 
nected with them. 

Parents seldom realize the extent to which chil- 
dren can be made familiar with subjects of histori- 
cal and artistic interest through the surroundings 
of the home. And it is only thus that a home 
can become a perfect one. Ministering to the 
childish mind in every direction, it should con- 
tain elements which make not only good men and 
loving children, but wise men and progressive 
citizens. The thought of such a home raises the 
duty of women to a very high level. It is not 
her mission to dust and scrub and preside over 
the mending-basket, but to watch the blossoming 
minds of her children, and to foster each budding 
taste and inclination for wisdom and goodness 
which they develop. 

The home is the school of statesmanship, the 
centre of learning, the spot where alone one can 
find pure pleasure and unselfish love, where the 
children grow instinctively to love what is best. 
At least, this is what the home may become in the 
twentieth century, when women vote and pigs run 
about already roasted. But at present we can 
only gaze upon our ideal with reverent eyes from 

Proud men seldom have friends. In prosperity In all the sallies of badinage a polite fool 
they know nobody ; and in adversity nobody cares ; shines; but in gravity he is as awkward as an 
to know them. \ elephant disporting. 




By Paul Pastnor. 


A GLORIOUS day it had been, — like a bit of September 
Caught in the gates of midsummer, while playing the truant; 
A day of delicious completeness, cool, fragrant, and sunny. 
Now night, din) and noiseless, was floating down out of the 

Out of a corner of sunset, like dark-feathered captive 
Bursting a net of gold threads; and the brood of her 

Flock after flock, struggled after, and thickened the gloaming. 

In the Lake of the North, lying under the brow of the 

Slumbers Isle Grand; and the fragrance of orchards en- 
folds it. 
Golden its girdle of shore, and the mellowing grain-fields 
Clasp its fair beaches with buckles of umber and sunshine. 
There, in the midst of the calm, lazy water, it slumbers, 
Ripens, and rolls like a huge yellow pear in the water. 

Long, long ago, in the fabulous age of the red man, 
Isle Grand was joined to the shore by a long, shining sand- 
Thereon an excellent road-bed has lately been builded 
Unto the gate of the island, that stands By the toll-house. 
Oft, of a still summer night, you may hear the wheels 

Over the dyke, or the lope of the toil-weary farm-hand — 
The ponderous roll of his feet on the hard-beaten highway ! 

Over the bridge, through the twilight, a carriage was gliding; 
Smooth was the sound of the wheels on the excellent road- 
Thus from the mart of the city came Oliver Bascom 
Home to his farm in the midst of the fruit-growing island. 
Swiftly he drove, and the light breeze that rippled the water 
Laughed on his uncovered forehead and tossed his brown 

Also the plentiful light of his eyes went before him 
Westward, where lay his possessions, his flock-covered acres. 

Scarce had he come to the elm in the midst of the sand-bar, 
Clinging alone to the desolate dike with its root-thongs, 
When in his face fell the shadow of Lora — sweet maiden ! — 
Breasting the eventide glory, and walking before him. 
Marked he her shoulders' sinuous tossing, and also 
The grace of her step, as she followed the trend of the 

Now Lora, the way being narrow, stepped down on the 

And stood looking southward intently, away from the car- 

Her beautiful billowy shoulders sank down in a calm. 

But still the young land-owner tightened his rein as he 
passed her, 

And could but gaze backward with fond, earnest eye through 
the twilight, 

His presence enforced by the rose- colored background of 

She yielded, fond maiden ! and round on her marvelous 

Crept the shy crescent, the quarter, the moon of her face ! 

Then suddenly flashed to his forehead the hand of the young 

Lifted his cap, and detained it, — a tribute right gallant. 

And there in the dim light of evening it hung, nor de- 

Like nimbus of man-saint aloft in the high, holy window 

Of Church of St. Joseph, the splendid, the pride of the city, 

Where worshiped the parents of Lora from Sabbath to 

"The Sand-bar is lonely," he cried to the* quick-blushing 

" Dangerous often, and thou art yet far from the toll-house. 

Come, ride with me ; there is room on the seat here to spare 

Up to the road-bed climbed Lora in timid obedience; 

Stood with her hand on her hat-rim, half-frightened, half- 
\ Two narrow red ribbons streamed, shivering to northward 
and westward, 

Touched her rare cheeks, and straightway became rivers of 
blushes ! 

"Oh, thank you sir," softly she answered; "but father is 

Somewhere behind me he's crossing the Sand-bar; I know it, 
And am not afraid, for I could run back in a minute, 
And call toward the clank of the ox-yoke, and father would 

hear me." 
Yet, as she answered, the maiden respectfully neared him ; 
For natural courtesy taught her that never at distance 
A lady should hold conversation with friend or with stranger. 
| Ceased she, and stood by the carriage, her brown eyes down- 
looking ; 
And through her sweet lips still there issued the fragrance of 
speech ! 

; " Lora," said Oliver Bascom (" I pray you, forgive me 
For using your name thus ungiven, since long I have known 

By good will of silence, through father and mother and 

Wilt ride to the toll-gate ? for listen ! thy father is coming, 
And thou must walk slow as the oxen, if he overtake thee." 



Meanwhile, through the smooth, tempered air there came 

burdensome sounds ; 
The crush of loose, toil-heavy feet in the road-bed of gravel 7 
The bowing and swaying together of huge, weary creatures; 
The creaking and rattling yoke; the sighs of submission; 
The meek, muttered groans of the oxen; the swish of the 

goad ; 
And now and anon the guidance, in tones of moroseness, 
And the slow, labored step of the farmer, desiring his rest. 

So while the man and the maiden were listening together, 
Fanner Laroix and his oxen loomed up in the twilight. 
Swiftly they seemed to approach through the dusk of the 

" Haste ! or thy father will think thou art playing the bandit !'* 
Cried the young man, in a deep, merry whisper to Lora. 
Quick he descended, and drew her, all blushing, but yielding, 
Unto the step of the carriage, and helped her to mount it. 

Bowed on his breast was the head of the old man behind them, 
And ere the swift dash of wheels had quite scattered his 

Far in the distance were Lora and Oliver Bascom, 
Fading away is the shadows, and laughing together. 
Then drooped the goad, like the branch of a water-side 

willow ; 
Also the stern voice was hushed, and the oxen went wildly. 

( To be Continued.} 


By W. H/ Perrin. 

Almost a decade has passed since the death of 
the great journalist and poet whose name heads 
this sketch. The flowers of spring have bloomed 
and died and the grass withered upon his grave, 
as the seasons have come and gone and years been 
added to the period since his voice was hushed in 
the silence of the tomb. Some of the ablest 
writers of the time have essayed, in fitting terms, 
to perpetuate his memory and wreathe with im- 
mortelles a name illustrious not only in journal- 
ism, but in the fields of poetry and literature. 
Numerous biographies and reminiscences have 
already appeared in the public prints of the day, 
in which many events of his life have been truly 
portrayed. An ardent admirer of the veteran 
editor, and a business association with him ex- 
tending over a number of years, at the request of 
mutual friends I willingly and lovingly under- 
take the task of adding a few words of tribute 
to one of the most remarkable men America has 

George Dennison Prentice was born in New 
London County, Connecticut, December 18, 1802, 
and died at the country residence of his son, 
Colonel Clarence J. Prentice, on the banks of 
the Ohio River, a few miles -below Louisville, 
on the morning of January 22, 1870. Of his 
early life, prior to his visit to Kentucky in 1830, 
which resulted in its becoming his permanent 
home, I shall say nothing in this article, as it has 
so often been given by other writers. .In person, 
Mr. Prentice was rather above the medium stand- 
ard, with a figure that in youth was said to have 

been as straight as an Indian's, but became some- 
what stooped and bent with the weight of years. 
One biographer thus describes him, and the pic- 
ture he presents is as nearly correct as can be made 
with the pen: "His features were not regular, but 
his face was for the rnost pan pleasing; often, when 
animated, it seemed handsome His head was 
finely-shaped, having a particularly noble and 
impressive forehead ; his hair was black, but 
somewhat thin, retaining its blackness until quite 
late in life. He had dark-brown eyes, rather 
small, full of light and sparkle when he was in a 
happy mood, though they could express fierceness 
and severity. His voice was low and agreeable in 
its general tone. Among strangers he was apt to 
be reserved, sometimes embarrassed ; but with 
chosen friends his conversation was fluent and 
free, often full of characteristic brightness and 
humor; at other times, when touching the loftier 
themes of poetry and philosophy, seriously sweet 
and eloquent.' ' 

In 1830, when Prentice was twenty-eight years 
of age, he was induced by the Whigs of Connec- 
ticut to make a journey to Kentucky for the pur- 
pose of writing the life of Henry Clay, then the 
great leader of that party in the South and West. 
His absence from New England was intended to 
be temporary, but, as already stated, Kentucky be- 
came his permanent home. For some time prior to 
leaving Connecticut he had been the editor of the 
"New England Review/' and upon accepting the 
call of his party to visit Kentucky he recommended 
to the publishers of the " Review" John G. Whittier 



to take his place as editor of that paper, a sugges- 
tion the publishers adopted. Says Mr. Piatt, in his 
biography of Prentice : "Mr. Whittier accepted it 
at once ; but he had never met Mr. Prentice, they 
were strangers personally, and they did not after- 
ward meet each other, though Mr. Prentice, I 
know, always admired and honored the good 
Quaker poet of Amesbury, and the latter, I am 
sure, must always have remembered tne generous 
compliment of Mr. Prentice. 1 ' 

The biography of Clay was written for campaign 
purposes, and intended to be used by the Whig 
party in New England. In 1828, when John 
Quincy Adams failed to be re-elected to the 
Presidency, Mr. Clay, who held the first place in 
his Cabinet, passed from public life the following 
March, and remained in retirement for two or 
three years. To bring him again prominently 
before his party was the object of the biography, 
and finally led to the establishment of the Louis- 
ville Journal, a paper that for more than a third 
of a century wielded perhaps a greater influence 
than any newspaper ever published in the United 
States. Mr. Prentice's preface to the biography 
of Clay was dated November 1*4, 1830. And on 
the 24th of the same month he issued the first 
number of the Journal. Referring to these events, 
Hon. Henry Watterson, in a memorial address 
delivered before the Kentucky Legislature, at the 
request of that body, just after the death of Pren- 
tice, said: "He was obscure and poor. The 
people of the West were rough. The times were 
violent. Parties were dividing upon measures of 
government which could not in their nature fail 
to arouse and anger popular feeling, and to the 
bitterness of conflicting interests was added the 
enthusiasm which the rival claims of two great 
party chieftains everywhere excited. In those 
days there was no such thing as journalism as we 
now understand it. The newspaper was but a 
poor affair, owned by a clique or a politician. 
The editor of a newspaper was nothing if not per- 
sonal. Moreover, the editors who had appeared 
above the surface had been men of second-rate 
abilities, and had served merely as 'squires to 
their liege lords, the politicians. This much Mr. 
Prentice reformed at once and altogether. He 
established the Louisville Journal; he threw him- 
self into the spirit of the times as the professed 
friend of Mr. Clay and the champion of his 
principles; but he invented a warfare hitherto 

unknown, and illustrated it by a personal identity 
which very soon elevated him into the rank of a 
party leader as well as a partisan editor. . . . Mr. 
Prentice, the most distinguished example of the 
personal journalism of the past, leaves Hut one 
other behind him, and when Greeley goes there 
will be no one left, and we shall hardly see 
another. As was said of the players, ' They die 
and leave no copy.' . . . From 1830 to 1861 the 
influence of Prentice was perhaps greater than the 
influence of any political writer who ever lived ; 
it was an influence, directly positive and personal. 
It owed its origin to the union in his person- of 
gifts which no one had combined before him. He 
had, to build upon, an intellect naturally strong 
and. practical, and this was trained by rigid, 
scholarly culture. He possessed a keen wit and a 
poetical temperament. He was brave and aggres- 
sive ; and though by no means quarrelsome, he 
was as ready to fight as to write, and his lot was 
cast in a region where he had to do a good deal 
of both. By turns a statesman, a wit, a poet, a 
man of the world, and always a journalist, he gave 
to the press of his country its most brilliant illus- 
trations, and has left to the State and to his pro- 
gency by odds the largest reputation ever achieved 
by a newspaper writer." The only excuse I can 
offer for the lengthy extract given above is the 
fact that it is true of its subject, and therefore will 
lose nothing by repetition. 

As a further illustration of the stormy period in 
which he begun his political and editorial life in 
Kentucky, and the character of the man, I will 
give a short extract from a speech delivered by 
Prentice at a banquet in Louisville, on the occa- 
sion of the thirty-sixth anniversary of the Journal. 
In response to the leading toast, Mr. Prentice 
said: "The thirty-sixth anniversary of the birth- 
day of- the Louisville Journal suggests to me, I 
confess, some melancholy thoughts and reflections. 
I came here a young man ; I am an old one. I 
came here full of physical strength ; my strength 
is broken by sickness, by years, and by the storms 
of political life. I*have done and endured enough 
to destroy half a dozen ordinary men. Ah, how 
well and how vividly I remember the long-gone 
twilight hour when I first entered Louisville ! I 
was alone and lonely. My heart almost misgave 
me, for there was not in the city a human being 
that I knew, not one with whom I had inter- 
changed letters, and I felt as if I should sink 



unrecognized and unnoted into the roaring and 
rushing multitude like a rain-drop into the sea. 
But I sent out the first number of the Journal, 
and all was changed. I was no longer a stranger 
to the people, and they were no longer strangers 
to me. I had friends enough. They grappled 
me to their breasts with hooks of steel. They 
gathered around me to cheer and encourage and 
strengthen me, and to protect me, if necessary, 
with their lives. My early editorial experience was 
stormy and tempestuous, but I triumphed. Men 
were killed for their relationship to me, and for 
their connection with my paper; my own life was 
repeatedly and treacherously sought, but I am 
here to partake of your delightful hospitality to- 

Mr. Prentice was a natural wit ; his humor 
flowed spontaneously, and he seldom allowed a 
circumstance — whether grave or gay — to pass 
without calling into play his ready genius in that 
direction. Many of his heavy bolts were launched 
at Shadrach Penn, editor of the Louisville Daily 
Advertiser, then the leading Democratic journal 
of Kentucky. Scarcely an article was written by 
Penn, or even a sentence, but was turned and 
twisted by Prentice to his discomfiture, as the 
following will show: Penn wrote of " lying these 
cold mornings curled up in bed," to which Pren- 
tice replied that "this proves what we've always 
said, that 'you lie like a dog.'" Penn then 
angrily recommended Prentice to "set up a lie 
factory," and Prentice rejoined, "If we ever do 
set up a lie factory, we will certainly swing you 
out for a sign." Penn said that he had "met 
one of Prentice's statements squarely." "Yes," 
said Prentice, " by lying roundly." Prentice 
once perpetrated a joke on Penn, which is doubt- 
less still remembered by many of the old citizens 
of Louisville. It was between 1835 and -1840, at 
a time when their editorial warfare was raging at 
white heat. Something like a year before the 
present incident occurred, a horrible murder had 
taken place in the South not far from New Orleans, 
and it so happened that Prentice had preserved a 
paper intact, containing the particulars of the 
affair. Looking through his desk one day, he 
came across the paper, then a year old, but un- 
stained by age, and his natural wit suggested a 
joke on Penn. He sprinkled it, folded it neatly, 
and pressed it, which gave it the appearance of a 
new issue, and placing it in a wrapper addressed 

it: "Compliments clerk of the steamer Wau- 
cousta, five days, seventy-eight hours out from 
New Orleans. Quickest trip on record. To Sha- 
drach Penn, editor Louisville Advertiser" and sent 
it to the Advertiser office. The boy rushed into 
the sanctum breathless, threw down the paper on 
the editorial-table, and scampered away. Penn 
took it up, and hurriedly tearing off the wrapper, 
his eye encountered the important item of news, — 
the murder above referred to. The paper was 
nearly up, and no time was to be lost. Several 
important matters were taken out of the form, and 
the new copy set in their place, with elaborate 
editorial comments, and very profuse thanks to 
the gentlemanly clerk of the elegant and fast 
steamer Waucousta 1 for the valuable favor, etc. 
The whole trick proved successful, and it was 
many a day before Penn heard the last of it. 
Especially when he had a " big thing" in the 
Advertiser, would Prentice ask, "Did that item 
come by the Waucousta?" 

But not alone at " poor old Shad Penn" were 
his jokes and witticisms leveled. All who had 
the temerity to cross swords with him met a like 
reception at his hands. Next to Penn, perhaps, 
John H. Harney, for many years editor of the 
Louisville Daily Democrat, and "Parson" Brown- 
low, of the Knox vi lie (Tenn.) Whig, received a 
larger share of his hot shot. I remember an arti- 
cle in the Journal about 1865 or 1866, devoted to 
Brownlow, in which Prentice gave him the most 
terrific belaboring that I ever saw in print. It 
was simply tremendous, and I think effectually 
silenced Brownlovv's guns, for I never saw a reply 
to it. A quotation from it even would scarcely 
be in place in an article of this kind. But Pren- 
tice did not always escape without a scratch, as will 
be shown in the following caustic epigram, written 
years ago, on N. P. Willis: 

" Unwritten honors to thy name belong, 
Willis, immortal both in praise and song; 
Unwritten poetry thy pen inspires; 
Unwritten music, too, thy fancy fires; 
And more than all, philosophy divine, 
With its U7iwritten beauties, all are thine; 
Oh, how much greater praise would be thy due 
If thine own prose had been unwritten, too!" 

Willis good-naturedly returned the following 
response : 

1 The boat referred to was a notoriously slow old tub, and 
had but one engine. 



" Unwritten honors do in truth belong 
To him who gets a living by his song ; 
Unwritten poetry ; though wits do mutter, 
And * music/ too, to him is bread and butter. 
And, more than all, philosophy divine 
Helps him to ask poor wits, like thee, to dine. 
Oh, how much greater praise would be your due 
If your own wil could do as much for you ! M 

Dr. T. S. Bell, a life-long friend, and selected 

to deliver the address at the unveiling of the 

Prentice statue over the entrance of the new 

Courier-Journal building, thus truthfully alluded 

to his wit and humor: "The wit and humor of 

Mr. Prentice were daily feasts to the readers of 

the Louisville Journal, and I readily recall to 

memory many persons who would sooner have 

done without their breakfast than their morning 

Journal. In this department of daily wit, humor, 

and delightful instruction, I think Mr. Prentice 

never had an equal. That this wit and humor 

should pass successfully, as it did, through a daily 

ordeal of nearly forty years, is one of the marvels 

of literature : 

" * Age did not wither him, nor custom stale 
His infinite variety.' 

"The rills of this wit often sparkled in joyous 
radiance; the sarcasms were usually withering; 
but with these qualities there were streams of 
wisdom, of kindliness, and of goodness that were, 
and are now, refreshing." 

But it was not alone in wit, humor, and sar- 
casm that George D. Prentice excelled as a 
writer. • He was no less a poet. He used to say 
that he wrote poetry merely for recreation and 
pastime. But. even his prose was equal to the 
highest flights of the muses. On the death of a 
little child of one of his personal friends he wrote : 
"In musing upon their beautiful lost one, they 
should remember that a star of Heaven is brighter 
than a flower of earth. They should bear in mind 
that it is cause for gratitude that their young and 
glorious child, after breathing the soft, fresh air of 
the morning, passed away before the dark coming 
of the evening tempests." And this upon the 
New Year: "A new year has begun its awful 
flight, to pause not till its great mission is fulfilled. 
What its mission shall be we cannot know. We 
may strain our aching eyes toward the future, but 
all is dark and impenetrable as the midnight of 
death. We know that mighty things shall be, for 
such belong to all the years of time, but further 
we may not know." And the following upon the 

thirty-seventh anniversary of the Journal 
hear the low, spiritual, and holy voices of t 
and the heart throbs beneath the spell of n 
even as the ocean -tide beneath the in flue 
the lonely and nunlike wanderer of the skj 
dead rainbow reappears like a spirit of 
upon the showery clouds of life, and the 
the spring's first morns glow in dream-like 
upon the melancholy flowers of the long-ag 
perished streams gush anew from the arid 
and the breezes of the olden time sweep ag 
thousand wind-harps of the forest-pines." 

His poem entitled the "Closing Yex 
generally been conceded to have been I 
poetical production, and by many critics d 
the equal of Bryant's " Thanatopsis. " It c 
many beautiful and sublime thoughts, ai 
live as long as true poetry is admired, ai 
will be fame enough. "The River in th< 
moth Cave," another of his poems in blanl 
has by some been thought superior to the " < 
Year." It is freer from the fault of what 
term an " overstrong tendency to rhetorica 
ment and effect." It will probably never 
the popularity of that famous poem, but 
mind it is one of his very best, and I preft 
the "Closing Year." So limited has b 
circulation compared to that of the latter, 
appears now in most of the school-readers, 
will give it in full, believing that it will be 
appreciated by all who read this article : 

" Oh, dark, mysterious stream, I sit by thee 
In awe profound, as myriad wanderers 
Have sat before. I see thy waters move 
From out the ghostly glimmerings of my lamp 
Into the dark beyond, as noiselessly 
As if thou wert a sombre river drawn 
Upon a spectral canvas, or the stream 
Of dim oblivion flowing through the lone 
And shadowy vale of death. There is no wave 
To whisper on thy shore, or breathe a wail, 
Wounding its tender bosom on thy sharp 
And jagged rocks. Innumerous mingled tones, 
The voices of the day and of the night, 
Are ever heard through all our outer world, 
For Nature there is never dumb ; but here 
I turn and turn my listening ear, and catch 
No mortal sound, save that of my own heart, 
That 'mid the awful stillness throbs aloud, 
Like the far sea-surfs low and measured beat 
Upon its rocky shore. But when a cry 
Or shout or song is raised, how wildly back 
Come the weird echoes from a thousand rocks, 
As if unnumbered airy sentinels, 



The genii of the spot, caught up the voice, 
Repeating it in wonder, — a wild maze 
Of spirit-tones, a wilderness of sounds, 
Earth-born but all unearthly. 

Thou dost seem, 
Oh, wizard stream, a river of the dead — 
A river of some blasted, perished world, 
Wandering forever in the mystic void. . 
No breeze e'er strays across thy solemn tide ; 
No bird e'er breaks thy surface with his wing ; 
No star or sky or bow is ever glassed 
Within thy depths ; no flower or blade e'er breathes 
Its fragrance from thy bleak banks on the air. 
True, here are flowers, or semblance of flowers, 
Carved by the magic fingers of the drops 
That fall upon thy rocky battlements, — 
Fair roses, tulips, pinks, and violets, — 
All white as cerements of the coffined dead ; 
But they are flowers of stone, and never drank 
The sunshine or the dew. Oh, sombre stream, 
Whence comest thou, and whither goest ? Far 
Above, upon the surface of old Earth, 
A hundred rivers o'er thee pass and sweep, 
In music and in sunshine, to the sea; — 
Thou art not born of them. Whence comest thou, 
And whither goest ? None of Earth can know. 
No mortal e'er has gazed upon thy source — 
No mortal seen where thy dark waters blend 
With the abyss of Ocean. None may guess 
The mysteries of thy course. Perchance thou hast 
A hundred mighty cataracts thundering down 
Toward Earth's eternal centre ; but their sound 
Is not for ear of man. AH we can know 
Is that thy tide rolls out, a spectre stream, 
From yon stupendous, frowning wall of rock, 
And, moving on a little way, sinks down 
Beneath another mass of rock as dark 
And frowning, even as life, our little life, 
Born of one fathomless eternity, 
Steals on a moment, and then disappears 
In an eternity as fathomless." 

To one who has visited that vast "subterranean 
desert," the Mammoth Cave, it is difficult to 
realize how the human imagination could call 
forth anything more beautiful, more grand, than 
the above lines." They are sublime, they are in- 
comparable. Other poems of Mr. Prentice's, in 
blank verse, besides the two already noticed, are 
"The Flight of Years," "The Stars," " Brown's 
University/ ' "My Mother," "Birthday Reflec- 
tions," " My .Old Home," "The Invalid's Reply," 
"Night in Cave Hill Cemetery," "Lookout 
Mountain," "Thoughts on the Far Past," "On 
the Summit of the Sierra Madre," "The Grave of 
the Beautiful," and a few others of lesser note. 
Where all are good, it is not an easy matter to 

decide which is the best. All of them contain 
merit, and much beauty and sentiment. " Look- 
out Mountain" vividly describes the famous •' fight 
above the clouds," and has many fine passages. 
Though blank vers* was his favorite style, he wrote 
many sweet gems in verse. "At My Mother's 
Grave" and the " Death-Day of William Court- 
land Prentice" are tenderly pathetic. Mr. Wat- 
terson said he once heard the former recited at a 
club-party in Washington by General Albert Pike 
in a manner that left not a dry eye in the room. 
"To a Bunch of Roses," "The Bouquet's Compli- 
ments," "Lines to a Lady," are exquisite little 
pieces of the sentimental style, and, as a critic 
has said, "show the poet's terseness and epigram- 
matic felicity of expression." The titles here 
given of his poems in verse and in blank verse are 
but a few of his most popular productions. Since 
his death they have all been collected and pub- 
lished complete in a volume, with an excellent 
biographical sketch by John James Piatt, and are 
thus preserved in the literature of the day. 

George D. Prentice was an energetic worker. 
He actually loved work for its own sake. An 
article in " Harper's Magazine" for January, 1875, 
written, I believe, by Junius Henri Browne, does 
Mr. Prentice some injustice. The article in ques- 
tion says : " He was irregularly industrious. Few 
men worked harder when he did work, and few 
avoided labor more eagerly when labor was not 
to his mind. He frequently wrote in a single day 
four or f\vc y even six, columns of the Journal; and 
then he would not write another line for a week. 
Generally, however, he had performing periods 
extending from one to three months ; after which 
he would eschew manuscript completely until the 
toilsome fit returned." This is the reverse of what 
I knew of Prentice, and the testimony of others 
who knew him much longer than I did. Dr. Bell, 
in the address from which I have already quoted, 
said: "Throughout my observation of him he 
worked at his vocation in the earliest morning 
hours, and for a long period of time midnight 
found him at cheerful labor. It is one of the 
great joys of my life that I have known personally 
all the great editors of Kentucky, from the vener- 
able John Bradford, who, in 1787, printed one of 
the first newspapers established west of the Alle- 
gheny Mountains, down to my contemporaries, 
and among them all there \vas no one that loved 
and enjoyed labor in his editorial vocation as he 



did." As I have said, Dr. Bell was his intimate 
friend for nearly forty years, and upon this point 
but echoes the. sentiments of all who knew the 
great editor. Says Mr. Watterson: "I never 
knew any one who could wri#e as much as Pren- 
tice in a given time, or sustain the quantity and 
quality of his writing for so long a time. He 
actually averaged from fifteen to eighteen hours 
a day, and kept this up month after month, 
turning out column upon column of all sorts of 
matter, ' from gay to grave, and from lively to 
severe.' M 

Prentice never "avoided labor" when abJe to 
perform it. He used to say that he worked 
"twenty-four hours in a day, and the reason that 
he did not work any more was because the days 
were no longer." This is nearer the truth than 
that he "avoided labor when labor was not to his 
mind." It was always to his mind, except when 
tillable to be up and going ahead. The article in 
"Harper's" brought out a response from Paul R. 
Shipman, long the managing editor of the Jour- 
nal, and for whom Mr. Prentice entertained the 
warmest affection. Shipman published his reply 
in the New York JVorlrf,' and in it he stoutly de- 
fended Mr. Prentice against the imputation cast 
upon him by Browne's article, and showed him to 
be a most inveterate, tireless worker. 

In 1835 Mr. Prentice was married to Miss Hen- 
rietta Benham, a native of Ohio. She was a lady 
of fine accomplishments, and in early youth is 
said to have possessed great beauty and personal 
attractions. Intellectual and highly educated, she 
was for many years a social leader in Louisville, 
gathering around her all that was graceful and 
refined in the society of the Falls City. It was 
not my pleasure to know her until about ?iwq 
years before her death, and at that period she was 
still a handsome, stately woman. Her charity and 
benevolence were almost boundless, and many of 
the poor and unfortunate had ample cause to bless 
her liberality. She died in April, 1868. 

Mr. and Mrs. Prentice had but four children, 
two of whom died in early childhood ; the other 
two, William Courtland and Clarence Joseph, 
lived to man's estate, but are now dead. Both 
entered the Confederate army during the late war. 
Courtland, the elder of the two, joined Morgan's 
Cavalry in the fall of 1S62, and in less than a 
month was killed in battle at Augusta, Ky. Clar- 
ence went in at the beginning, fought through 

the entire war, rose to the rank of colonel, and 
returned home in safety. He died a few years 
ago, and his son, George D. Prentice, Jr., is the 
last representative of the poet-editor. 

The late war aroused all the old fire in Mr. 
Prentice. With a prophetic knowledge he beheld 
the coming storm long before it burst upon the 
land, and all his energies were exerted to avert 
the calamity. He believed that wise legislation 
would save the country from the danger that 
threatened it, and to this end determined to go 
on a lecturing tour. The following description is 
given of one of these lectures: "As he called up 
before his auditory the mighty who, in life, had 
guided the ship of State, he seemed to be enacting 
the part of Homer in assembling the gods of 
Olympus. As he moved his grand procession of 
American statesmen, his auditory sat in ecstatic 
rapture. When he called up the majestic shade 
of Henry Clay as ' the noblest Roman of them 
all,' the tremulous tones of his voice expressed 
the depth of his emotions. of saddened despair. 
With his mind filled with that which had been, 
•and gloomy forebodings from that which is not, 
all the chords of feelings rushed together in the 
mournful, wailing diapason : ' Atlas no longer 
bears the world on his shoulders; Ulysses wanders 
from Ithaca, and his bow stands idle because there 
is no one who may bend it.' Auditory and orator 
were overwhelmed in a common emotion." But 
all his patriotism could not avert the impending 
tempest. His alarm was considered groundless at 
the time by many, but alas ! was fulfilled far be- 
yond his most gloomy anticipations. Although 
he could not prevent the war, he did, beyond the 
shadow of a doubt, keep Kentucky in the Union, 
when but a word through the columns of the 
Journal would have caused her to secede with the 
other Southern States. In all the long and des- 
perate struggle that ensued, his fidelity to the 
Union never faltered ; notwithstanding his two 
sons, his only children, had entered the Confed- 
erate army, and numbers of his life-long friends 
were arrayed under the " Southern Cross," he 
stood firmly by the old flag and made a gallant 
fight. At the close of the war he was pretty well 
broken down. His health and spirits were gone, 
the terrible battle he had fought had battered his 
decaying tabernacle, and the twilight shadows 
were gathering around him. Many of his oldest 
and dearest friends were dead, or had slipped 



away, leaving him, as it were, the hero of a pas- 
sage in his "Closing Year 1 


'• The proud bird, 
The condor of the Andes, that can soar # 
Through heaven's unfathomable depths, or brave 
The fury of the northern hurricane 
And bathe his plumage in the thunder's home, 
Furls his broad wings at nightfall, and sinks down 
To rest upon his mountain crag." . 

But occasional flashes of the old fire burst forth, 
like the last expiring flicker of the taper before 
going out in the socket, with something of his 
old force and style, but characterized by the 
gloomy and mournful ring attaching to much of 
his writings toward the close of his 4ife. The 
following, from an editorial in the Journal soon 
after the close of the war, is a sample : " Though 
a painter were to dip his pencil in ' the gloom of 
earthquake and eclipse/ he could not paint a 
picture of her as she has been for five miserable 
years and now is. And neither upon the earth, 
nor in the sky, nor in the air, can we behold a 
sign or omen of less unhappy times. At best, a 
long period of national trial and suffering is 
before us. Hundreds of moons will wax and 
wane, seasons and years and decades will come 
and go, mighty events will succeed each other 
throughout the world, our young men will become 
old, the old will be* in their graves, before our 
country can recover the glory that erst crowned 
her as a diadem of stars.' ' 

His wife, as I have stated, died in 1868, and 
shortly after the control of the Journal, to which 
he had given a world-wide reputation, passed into 
other hands. His work was done ; he stood 
alone, as it were; he had outlived his day and 
generation. A few days before Christmas (1869) 
he left Louisville for the purpose of spending the 
holidays at the country residence of his son. It 
was a cold, bitter day, and a ride of ten miles in 
a carriage brought on a cold, pneumonia resulted, 
and the tale is told. A few weeks later (January 
22, 1870) and all was over, — the poet, the poli- 
tician, the journalist, was no more. Upon the 
announcement of his death great respect was 
shown to his memory throughout the country. 
The Legislatures of Kentucky and Tennessee, 
then in session, adopted resolutions appropriate 
to the occasion, pronouncing his death a " public 
bereavement." A member of the Masonic frater- 
nity, his body was brought to the city, and laid 

in state in Masonic Temple, where hundreds of 
friends and admirers visited it, to view for the 
last time the man they had so long loved and 
honored. He was. buried with Masonic honors 
in Cave Hill Cemetery, Louisville's beautiful city 
of the dead, and there, on a sunny slope, he 
sleeps by the side of loved ones who preceded 
him to the land of shadows. I cannot refrain 
from giving the closing words of Mr. Watterson's 
memorial address, several times referred to in this 
article : " Prentice rests in a quiet spot, where the 
violets of which he loved to sing, and the meadow- 
grass that grew greener in his song, will presently 
come and grow above him, and the stars which 
he made into a thousand images shine there by 
night, and the quiet skies that gave the kindliest 
joy to his old age bend over his grave. He is 
dead to a world of love and pity and admiration. 
But so long as there is a gravestone upon that 
hillside, so long as there is a newspaper printed in 
the beautiful Anglo-Saxon tongue, which he under- 
stood so well and wrote so forcibly and gracefully, 
the descendants of this generation and the stranger 
who comes from afar will seek out curiously and 
lovingly the place where* they laid him* The man 
is dead. But Prentice is .not dead." 

The Louisville Journal, as already noted, was 
established in November, 1830; and after enjoying 
a reputation and popularity, for more than a third 
of a century, attained by few newspapers in the 
United States, or in the world, it was, in Novem- 
ber, 1868, consolidated with the Courier, thus 
comprising in the Louisville Courier-Journal two 
of the ablest newspapers in Kentucky. Mr. Pren- 
tice was retained as an editor of the Courier- 
Journal u\) to the time of his death, although his 
interest in the Journal had passed into other 
hands before the consolidation of the two papers. 
In the spring 0/ 1876 the new Courier-Journal 
building, located on the corner of Fourth and 
Green streets, Louisville, one of the most magnifi- 
cent newspaper offices in the country, was com- 
pleted. On the 16th day. of May (1876) the 
building was formally dedicated, and a statue of 
George D. Prentice, which had been placed above 
the main entrance, was unveiled to the public. 
The statue is of Italian marble,, from the Re- 
vecchioni quarry, and when completed weighed 
about ten thousand pounds. It measures from 
the base to the head of the figure seven feet and 
six inches, and represents Prentice in a sitting 



posture, as if attending to his editorial duties. It 
was executed by Mons. A. Bouly. 

At the unveiling of the statue, Dr. T. S. Bell 
delivered the address to which 1 have several 
times alluded; and with one other extract from it 
I will close this ariticle : "The special object 
before us is to pay our homage to the eminent 
virtues of George D. Prentice, to whose memory 
we dedicate the statue that adorns the expression 
of journalistic enterprise before which we are as- i 
sembled. We signally honor ourselves in render- 
ing our tributes of admiration, of affection, and 
reverence to one so conspicuously worthy of them. 
In an assemblage of those who knew him intimately 
from the beginning of his career in Kentucky to its 
close, but few, if any, words would be required to 
call forth the meed of honor that is his due. But 
the number of his early companions has dwindled 
away until scarcely any are left. He came to 
Louisville when it was a village ; in the course of 
his ministrations to its welfare and prosperity it 
reached the immense proportions that greet our 
eyes. Nine years ago, in the balmy breath of 
May, the statue of Kentucky's great orator, states- 
man, and patriot was dedicated by admiring and 
grateful friends in this city. The minstrel of that 
great occasion, from a heart overflowing with the 
life-long love of the great commoner, prepared 
the solemn ode sung by one hundred voices on 
unveiling the statue. He has joined the ranks of 
Kentucky's great dead, and has left us with the 

sad knowledge that there is no one to 
throne that he created and occupied wit 
rival. We are now assembled to render 
unequaled journalist, the patriotic statesm 
poet, and philanthropist, whom the peoj 
lighted to honor in life, homage similar 1 
rendered to the great statesman, the orate 
patriot. There is eminent fitness in thus j 
public memorials to Henry Clay and C 
D. Prentice. Alexander the Great though 
among the blissful events atten4ant on the 
of Achilles the hero was most fortunate in 1 
Homer for a biographer. Mr. Clay was 
happy in the friendly offices of George D. 
tice. In a political warfare of twenty-two 
to secure the triumph and supremacy of 1 
Clay, George D. Prentice was recognized < 
where as the conspicuous chieftain of the co\ 
The white plume of Henry of Navarre wa 
more cheering and inspiring to his brave ho 
Huguenots, at Ivry, than the ever-ready, gleai 
trenchant blade of this great journalist was t 
hosts that fought for Henry Clay. If in 
tumult and storms of battle they lost sigl 
their colors, they turned their glances to 
Louisville Journal, to rally to its ' white plu 
well assured that it was always ' in the pat 
honor and glory.' The two illustrious Kentucl 
to whom you have erected statues entertainec 
each other a depth of love that has been rare! 
ever, exceeded." 


By Musicus. 

In no way, perhaps, has the progress and devel- 
opment of our modern civilized life shown itself , 
more decidedly than in the many and sweeping 
changes that have taken place in the knowledge 
and study of music. ' 

By slow but sure degrees the art is beginning " 
to be treated on a more strictly scientific basis; 
the knowledge of it is more practical and thor- | 
ough, and greater attention is given. to its true ' 
appreciation as a means of elevated enjoyment, i 
Not that there has ever been reason to complain 
of want of taste for music of a superficial and ; 
general kind, for it may safely be said, and would, j 

we think, be generally admitted, to be the rr 
popular of all the arts. To most people mi 
appeals, if not on its artistic, at any rate on 
social side. Indeed, it is chiefly to its influei 
in the latter case that we are inclined to imp 
its principal ascendancy over the general pub) 
for when not enjoyed for its own sake, it is f 
quently encouraged as a most useful institutic 
invaluable at tea-parties as a stimulant to live 
conversation, and, in some sort of way, a proof 
polish and refinement. For the conviction seer 
universal among all classes of the community th 
music has a really healthy and civilizing influenc 



and seldom it is one meets with even unmusical I 
people who care to acknowledge their complete 
indifference to it; still less the individual with the 
rare honesty to admit that he thoroughly detests 
it. The result of this fashion for music, as one 
must call it,, is an evil, however, in one respect. 
It seems to be universally taken for granted — at 
any rate, as regards the softer sex — that the study 
of music, in some form of instrumental or vocal, 
is a sine qud non of lady-like and complete educa- 
tion. Every girl «is expected to learn to play or 
to sing, quite regardless of her incapacity or disin- 
clination to attempt either. Hours spent wearily 
at the piano end in nothing but disappointment 
and annoyance; and* if the waste of time is 
lamentable, so too often is the result. It is pain- 
ful at any time to witness a complete and signal 
exhibition of misdirected nervous energy; but 
there was never, perhaps, invented a more effica- 
cious plan for wasting time, losing temper, and 
irritating susceptible nerves than the fashion of 
the indiscriminate and compulsory study of music. 
The evil, too, does not end when a young lady 
has concluded her school-life; for, after a certain 
amount of time and money has been spent, the 
parents think there should be some practical issue 
from so much effort, and the unfortunate girl is 
expected to perform in the company of her friends 
— with what results those who are in the habit of 
frequenting the ordinary musical riunion know 
only too well. No doubt it is the sociability of 
the art, if not a little desire for display, which is 
chiefly the cause of this state of things; but if we 
come rationally to consider the matter, it would 
be just as reasonable to expect that every girl 
should be an artist or a sculptor, as to take for 
granted that she possesses the talent for becoming 
a vocalist or a pianist. The mere fact of the pos- 
session of ten fingers never did, and never will, 
constitute a musician. It may be urged against 
this view that no talent, or even taste, can show 
itself without some cultivation. To this we would 
reply that taste for music, where there is any 
opportunity for gratifying it, generally shows itself 
at a very early period, and it needs but little in- 
struction to discover whether there is talent or 
not. To produce, any appropriate result, there 
must be obviously some natural capacity to work 
upon, as well as the patient persistence indispen- 
sable to all effort; and if in addition to these the 
requisite opportunities for improvement exist, too 
Vol. XVI.— s 

much time and labor can hardly be given to a 
study which, besides being the means of impart- 
ing unlimited enjoyment to others, is a never- 
failing and, in the opinion of the present writer, 
an ever-increasing personal interest' to the per- 
former himself. 

It is a common thing for cultivated musicians 
to inveigh strongly against the inferiority of a 
large amount of the music, both vocal and instru- 
mental, annually published in our country. We 
are, indeed, completely flooded with a deluge of 
most commonplace and worthless rubbish. Rub- 
bish we call it advisedly ; nor can it be dignified 
by any other name, for vulgar combinations of 
sound can never fulfill the conditions of music. 
And here again we return to the old difficulty of 
inferior performers; for it is not very far from the 
truth to say that their very raison d'etre is the 
existence of an unfailing supply of second-rate 
and easy music. Indeed, the evil is two-sided, 
for bad music not only encourages bad performers, 
but bad p rformers encourage commonplace com- 
posers. They offer each other the mutual support 
of a constant supply and demand. One cannot 
regard this state of things with any other feeling 
than regret, particularly when one considers that 
the fact of constantly listening to feeble, jingling 
compositions prevents the growth, especially with 
youthful performers, of a taste for anything better; 
for nothing is more important than to accustom 
young beginners to hear good standard musical 
works, and in no other way is it possible to lay 
the basis of a pure and elevated taste. The power 
of comprehending complicated musical harmonies 
necessarily only comes with use and practice even 
to the gifted; but it is not so impossible to lay 
one's hand on simple, good music, adapted to the 
capacities of beginners, that they should have their 
taste corrupted by the ephemeral productions of 
the present day. And so, too, with compositions 
for more advanced performers. When, for in- 
stance, one meets with endless diversities of the 
theme 6f the tarantella, all varying in shades and 
gradations of insipidity, or spiritless and common- 
place waltzes, one can hardly realize the fac* that 
there are really such compositions as the taran- 
telles of Heller, or the melodious, impetuous 
vaises of Chopin, to be had for the asking. But 
sooner or later the trivial and superficiaf must give 
place to the true music. 

Of all our modern instruments, perhaps none 



has undergone greater changes and improvements 
in mechanism during the last twenty or thirty 
years than the pianoforte. If not the most per- 
fect, it is pre-eminently the most useful instrument 
we possess, and, for many reasons, some knowledge 
of its technicalities must always be the foundation 
of a musical education. The study of theoretical 
music in the shape of harmony and counterpoint 
is happily becoming more general ; but, as in the 
case of most things, it should be commenced 
early to produce much result. 

And after all has been done, and the time and 
labor bestowed have begun to bear fruit, the 
painstaking amateur has not always clear sailing. 
To be met, after a thoughtful and careful per- 
formance, in which the object has been to illus- 
trate clearly the conception of the composer, with 

remarks and ejaculations on the agility of one's 
fingers, etc., is annoying and vexatious, to say the 
least. There is also to be occasionally encountered 
a demure damsel of an aggravating type, who com- 
placently assures you that music comes by nature 
to her, that she never works, never practices, etc., 
though you are tempted to think, after listening to 
the result of her efforts, that the admission was 
hardly necessary. But times are improving, and 
the dilettanti are beginning to give place to the 
serious students, for in this, as in all other things, 
it is the honest work which pays best in the end ; 
and surely, when we see the almost unparalleled 
power that music, artistically rendered, exercises 
over crowded assemblies of people of all classes, 
there seems no reason to doubt that a true and 
high appreciation of the art is gaining ground. 


By Horace Cox. 

The smoother the surface, the less there is of 
friction ; the less there is of friction, the less also 
of wear and tear, the longer a thing lasts, and the 
longer it keeps its beauty and freshness. To slide 
easily along the appointed groove saves trouble, 
time, and material ; while to be all angles and 
misfit causes an enormous amount of labor before 
the obstructive points are ground into smoothness 
and the ball is made to fit the bore. But it must 
be made to fit ; cost what it may, these angles 
must be rubbed down, at least in part, else there 
is no going at all. For the bore is the primary 
power, the constant fact, while the ball is the 
secondary circumstance and the varying accident. 
The bore is life, society, conditions, and the 
temper of the individual is the thing which as to 
be made to fit, else there will be difficulties with- 
out end, tears which need never have been shed, 
loss of time in rubbing down the aggressive angles 
into workable smoothness, and loss of potential 
happiness in the process. We must run smoothly 
if we would not be hurt at every moment, and it 
is just this smoothness of surface which it is our 
beit wisdom to acquire if we have not got it, and 
to increase it if we have it already to some extent. 

Nothing varies in human beings so much as the 
comparative smoothness or spikiness of their moral 

surface. From the first years of childhood the 
pattern of the mould shows itself. We see even 
before speech the lines of that mild, placid, con- 
tented nature which accepts the sweet with a smile 
and the bitter without a frown ; which rejoices in 
such pleasantness as may come and waits patiently 
till the hour of pain has passed ; which looks up to 
the sunlight with delight and believes in the silver 
lining of every cloud ; which can wait until to-mor- 
row for the good demanded and desired to-day. 
And in the same way from the first we see the 
beginnings of that arbitrary and uncomfortable 
temper which must have all its roses free of thorns 
and its harvest coincident with its sowing; which 
believes that the present cloud* is eternal, eclipse, 
and that there is no sunshine for to-morrow because 
today has been overcast; which will not accom- 
modate itself to fate, but demands that the groove 
in which it has to run shall be moulded so as to 
give free play«to all its angles — the temper which 
will not bear and cannot wait, which does not 
hope and still less does it yield. In the very 
nursery, as we said, we see the beginnings of the 
future character, so far as smoothness or angularity 
of surface is concerned ; and the whole after- 
history of life confirms the initial indications. 
Moral discipline is emphatically self-bestowed. 



Parents and instructors can do no more than 
teach'; it remains with the individual self whether 
the lessons will be learned and practically applied 
or no. Punishment itself can do nothing when 
the will resists the moral application ; but where 
the conscience is naturally sensitive, and the desire 
to learn the truth and do the right naturally strong, 
a look is sufficient for guidance, and a spoken 
rebuke is as potent for chastisement and conse- 
quent reform as the sternest castigation with the 
more stubborn sort. The better- natured take 
themselves in hand from the beginning, accord- 
ing to their ability to see the wrong and control 
it. They not only hear what is said to them, but 
they take it to themselves with personal intention, 
and are easy to manage because earnest according 
to their degree in self-discipline and improvement. 
Look how some children fret and cry and rage for 
what they want, and are not to be appeased unless 
they have it there and then, just as they desire; 
and see, on the other hand, how some let them- 
selves be persuaded, or even reasoned with, out of 
a wish, and be made happy with a substitute. So, 
again, we see how some little creatures bewail 
themselves passionately over a trifling hurt, where 
others, teaching themselves that stoicism which 
comes from patience, that courage which is born 
of self-control, bear the bruise and let the cut be 
bound up with scarcely a whimper, bravely swal- 
lowing down their tears before they fairly fall. 
And this kind of self-discipline which begins in 
the nursery goes on through the fiery days of 
youth into the steady warmth of maturity and the 
quiet decline of age. It may be that so much has 
to be done, and such large natural obstacles have 
to be overcome, that the progress made may be 
slow. In any case, it is sure and constant ; 
whether much or little has to be controlled, that 
control is exercised and progress is made for the 
sake of the right and the value of good things. 
The tortoise wins the race at the last, and self- 
discipline undertaken in earnest will in time con- 
quer the most difficult temper and rub down the 
sharpest and most acute natural angles. 

The ancients used to say that the sight most 
pleasing to the gods was that of a good man strug- 
gling with adversity. Translate material adversity 
into moral difficulty, — difficulty of temper and 
disposition, — and the saying would be infinitely 
more sublime. Nothing is greater or grander 
than the struggle made by some to overcome the 

original defects of nature. The efforts after self- 
control by the passionate, the endeavor after pa- 
tience by the irritable, the attempts to get at 
peace by the eager, the rash, the impulsive, the 
intense, — all these long and arduous battles with 
the Apollyon that is within us, — give a spectacle of 
infinite sadness, knowing what is suffered, yet also 
they give us an infinite sense of reverence and 
sympathetic joy. These battles are the flower of 
education, at once the method and result of evolu- 
tion ; they are the means by which men become 
higher than the brutes and a little lower than the 
angels, and they are the gradual acquirement of 
that smooth surface which makes life both happy 
to the individual and tolerable for the community. 
If it were not for the smopth surfaces demanded 
by civilization, we should be all carrying revolvers 
and bowie-knives, which we should use on small 
provocation, to the destruction of all harmony, 
law, and progress. 

One thing we must confess, — people who have 
this smooth kind of temper are generally what is 
called put upon. Once establish a character for 
amiability, and the world takes care to exercise it 
pretty freely. Be sure it will not be suffered to 
rust for want of using, and no angles are likely to 
grow, like crystals, by the stillness of the environ- 
ment. The converse holds good, and the ill- 
tempered and spiky are for the most part gently 
handled for fear of the spikes. They may not be 
loved, but they are feared, and either let alone or 
ministered to, which answers their purposes better 
than that love which would require the sacrifice 
of a little pleasure here, of a little comfort there. 
The amiable, on the contrary, have to carry the 
heavy end of the stick, while the angular carry 
nothing at all. To them are given the drumsticks 
and the crusts, and they take the back seats as of 
course. Some one must have the drumsticks and 
the crusts, they say to themselves, — some one must 
take the back seats ; why not they as well as 
another? They think small enjoyments and minor 
privileges scarcely worth the trouble of fighting 
for, and they slip their shoulders back when they 
have to move through the crowd. They have 
their reward. They have fewer worries than their 
neighbors, and peace is a pearl of price. How 
much trouble those give themselves who are all 
angles, who demand the softest corner # of the car- 
riage and the highest place in the synagogue. 
And when all is done, where lies the residuum of 



good ? The little pinch of incense is burnt, and 
there is an end of odor, smoke, and substance. 
But the scratch got in the struggle remains, and 
the increment in that ugly angle, due to success, 
renders smooth running even more difficult than 
before, and the future more and more the inheri- 
tor of moral pinches and obstructions. 

Smooth surfaces in temper due to true, earnest 
moral manipulation are sweet and lovely things, 
but sometimes there are surfaces as smooth as wax, 
as soft as satin, which hide a great deal of inner 
angularitv and roughness. The fire is under the 
hatches, and the hatches are well battened down ; 
all the same the flames are there, concealed, not 
extinguished. It is only the surface of things 
which is smooth ; underneath there are jags and 
cracks, peaks and pitfalls, where the most wary 
walking cannot wholly secure you from danger. 
Look at that couple; what a singularly happy 
marriage theirs must be ! They have been man 
and wife for some years now, but they flirt in 
public almost as if they were bride and bride- 
groom, and go through whole chapters of playful 
nonsense which gives a kind of infantile gold to 
their gray hair, and seems to put back the hand 
of time twenty years at least. That matrimonial 
surface of theirs is satin-soft, smooth as ivory all 
over. But what do you make of his fiery eyes 
and her pinched mouth? What do you say to 
that sudden sharp and acrid voice of his, breaking 
through the artificial monotony of his ordinary 
speech as if it were some one else and not himself 
who spoke ? That smooth surface is very pleasant 
to contemplate ; but to our way of thinking there 
is a whole underneath of jags and spikes which 
are seen and felt only when the street-door shuts 
out the world, and the waxen surface may be 
taken off and laid aside as unnecessary for home 
use. What a benign old fellow that white-haired 
and dark-eyed old philanthropist is ! He carries 
his credentials in his smile, his mission in his 
voice. His manner is the softest and smoothest 
and silkiest that can possibly be ; and he* does 
generous things with blare of trumpets in the 
daily press, with acknowledgments of all men's 
praise. Streets are called after him ; his institu- 
tions are national honors ; he is one of the men of 
the generation ; his life is written already during 
his existence ; and he has built his own monument 
by his generosity and benevolence. He is the 
modern Howard with a different sphere. Yet his 

servants could tell you queer tales of his me 
and of his arbitrariness; his tenants pay 
last farthing ; his hands are always that oi 
step in the rear of the market which is in* 
in the one making a good and the other 
bargain; and if we peeped below this 
surface of public benevolence we should 
private life of spikes and angles which those 
the feel of best who stand nearest to him, a 
presumably most benefited by the smooth s 
of his public appearance. How different fro 
other of whom we know, where the left 
scarcely knoweth what the right hand dot 
where the intrinsic good of others, not the 
accruing to himself, is the object of all that he 
The honest face, broad smile, and hearty m 
not smooth so much as transparent, indie 
logical sequence — if manner were always tl 
indicator — a life which has not a secret 
anywhere, not one bone of a family skeletc 
one rag of an historic scarecrow. Yet it 
not be quite profitable to the investigator ' 
thorough search made in all the hidden 
There are dark spots in the background whi 
as well concealed by this frank assumpt 
transparency as the magician's mirror, 
crafty angles under the tables, conceals wh; 
on behind while giving the appearance of th 
airy transparency. A fortune gathered tc 
with strange haste — but the honest look 
man? — the fair hair flung backward from the 
brow? — the red-ripe lips which smile so fr 
— the good character for orthodoxy so sedi 
maintained ? — the coat flung off the ample 
— why ! who could doubt a man who off 
these points of faith, who is so smooth and 
so transparent and so honest ? He has th* 
of winning confidence, as a man who undei 
the art has the trie c of dealing himself a fe 
and kings more than ordinary chance woul< 
given him ; and he uses his power freely — 
ness the odd prosperity of his early days, an 
before any one else would have done more tl 
the ground for future sowing, he has reap< 
harvested. But how it was done remains 
his secret, and no one sees the shadow of th 
by which the strings were pulled. That i 
surface of sufficiency with the underneath c 
and difficulty — how well we all know it! 
fine outside and grand appearance for fest 
the world ; the miserable interior, the rags 



are hidden beneath the cloak, the debts which are 
staved off by small installments, serving simply to 
keep the credit of the house afloat, but never 
clearing the score nor bringing to safe anchorage. 
The girls and mamma look showy and sufficiently 
well dressed, if you do not pry too closely into 
material. They go out of town for the covenanted 
six weeks, or they paper up the front room and 
live in the back, to keep the smooth surface un- 
touched, and to appear as grand as their neighbors. 
They are to be seen at the flower-shows which are 
socially obligatory to all who have souls to be 
saved by Mrs. Grundy's sentence of admission ; 
and they glean from the theatrical criticisms ideas 
of such plays as they ought to see and cannot 
afford to go to, — ideas sufficiently vivid to talk 
about them as if they had been there. AH the 
while it is only surface, not reality, and the skin 
is very thin if very well laid on. 

That happy family of perfectly contented sisters, 
who are so sweet and fond in the face of the 

world ; that gentle, matronly elder sister who was 
soft as silk to her youngers when in the presence 
of her father and mother; the churchwarden 
with that damaging paper in his pocket; the 
servant whose manner is his best introduction, 
and who is so respectful and delightfully /r«wya«/ 
while he drinks your best claret, and makes a false 
key to your strong box ; the smooth, soft-voiced 
woman who smiles and smiles to your face, and 
stabs you in a few low-toned words behind your 
back ; the courtesy of that learned pundit who 
accepted your contradictions as if they were of 
value and worthy of note, while he laughs at you 
to his confreres as the veriest fool he has met with 
for a long while — yes, there they all are, imper- 
sonations of that smooth surface of which we have 
been singing the praise; but the praise only while 
it is true and the " outward and visible sign of an 
inward and spiritual grace" — not when it is a mere 
sham, hiding ugliness and making that which is 
not appear to be that which is. 


By Emily F. Wheeler. 

In the prelude which gives the key to one of | 
George Eliot's books, she speaks of the many i 
latter-day St. Theresas who find " for themselves 
no epic life wherein there is a constant unfolding 
of far-resonant action ; perhaps only a life of ; 
mistakes, the offspring of a certain spiritual gran- 
deur ill-matched with the meanness of opportunity. 
With dim lights and tangled circumstance, they 
try to shape their thought and deed in noble 
agreement ; but their ardor alternates between a 
vague ideal and the common yearning of woman- 
hood." For the St. Theresas and St. Catherines 
of legend and poetry, what are they, after all, but 
struggling women, seeking some broader outlet 
for the soul of love and compassion within them < 
than ordinary domestic life could give? The 
influence of their age and surroundings turned 
them into certain channels of labor; utilized 
their passionate enthusiasm in works of mercy 
and founding of orders, leaving enough surplus 
for visions and asceticism. ' But tear away the ' 
mystery and miracle wherewith their devotees 
invested them, and their lives can be paralleled 

in other lives to-day. Behind the legendary saint 
beats the ardent soul of sacrificing womanhood, 
and it is only the dough of outward life which 
varying conditions shape according to the ruling 
ideas of the age, despite the leaven within. For, 
at least, we may hope that St. Theresa and St. 
Catherine had no doubts of their course; that 
they did not, having put their hand to the work, 
look back longingly to the safe household-fire 
and the row of children that might have been 
there for each of them. Is it our Protestant 
revolt against the whole question of celibacy 
which makes us think no single life so rich and 
full and beneficent as the double one shut in by 
house-walls and guarded by tradition? 

Some such question must inevitably arise in 
reading the story of Sister Dora's life. Here is 
a woman of the rarest and finest character, beau- 
tiful, talented, and of great personal influence ; 
an enthusiast with common sense, a combination 
of St. Theresa and Mrs. -Fry. She gives up her , 
life to hospital and reformatory work in a mining 
district ; she becomes a sort of guardian angel 



over the lives and souls of a rough and brutal 
class. She is happy in her work and yet restless. 
She chooses to be alone, but declares that another 
time she would choose differently. Whether na- 
ture or tradition is responsible in the matter, 
seeing the sweet, strong face that looks out on us 
from the first page of her biography, the doubt in 
her heart turns to a question in ours. If we are 
right, how is the world's work of charity to be 
done nowadays ? It is the question of wifehood 
against sisterhoods ; of Roman against Protestant 
ideas. Surely, " the greatest good of the greatest 
number" was subserved when Dorothy Pattison 
became Sister Dora rather than some one's wife. 
But if she were in the right, it seems a pity that 
she should not have felt herself so. 

She was born — this latter-day saint — in York- 
shire, the daughter of a clergyman and the 
youngest but one in a family of twelve. Beau- 
tiful, and with such winning ways, such unfailing 
cheerfulness, that her father named her "Sun- 
shine." She was yet not spoiled by indulgence. 
In a happy, simple household she grew up, and 
we get a cheery picture of the handsome, high- 
spirited girl, educated at hap- hazard, yet with the 
keenest powers of observation ; with great physical 
strength, strong will, and an unusual power of 
enduring pain. She had a vivid imagination, but 
a keen sense of fun; a ready wit, and a passionate 
fondness for wild riding and out-of-door life. She 
did the usual work of a rector's daughter among 
the poor of the parish, and, following the rule of 
the house, denied herself to help others. She 
and her sisters were always planning how to save 
in order to have their money to give away. They 
turned their old gowns to that end; they gave 
away their dinners to take bread and cheese; not 
that this was exactly necessary, but that so their 
giving might be really self-sacrificing. They gave 
not only money, but time, talent, strength for 
others, and this as a delight, and not in any 
"missionizing" spirit. 

That, as she grew past girlhood, she was not 
perfectly content, even with the care of an invalid 
mother, a household, and her parish work, was 
evident. Her longing for a larger life and work 
made her wish, after her mother's death, to join a 
Protestant sisterhood. To her this life of devo- 
tion to others in systematized work seemed the 
ideal one. Like many another person of strong 
will, she longed to give hers up, once for all, to a 

power outside of herself, and be no more troubled 
with it. Her father, who.doubtless hoped for his 
beautiful daughter the common duties and com- 
mon delights of woman, strongly objected to this 

Some one reckons among the progresses of our 
age the possibility of a woman's taking to a special 
vocation five or ten years younger than formerly 
would have been thought proper. Dorothy Pat- 
tison was twenty-nine before her father so far 
relaxed his authority as to permit her to leave 
home to work at something. She answered a 
clergyman's advertisement for a school-mistress, 
and went in that capacity to Little Woolston. It 
was not what she wanted, but it was work, and 
that was the important thing. She lived all alone 
in a tiny cottage, and gave herself entirely to her 
work. Not content with teaching her children, 
she followed them home, nursed them when sick, 
visited the poor, and, though her life was lonely, 
managed to be reasonably happy. But the long- 
ing for the sisterhood was on her still, and after 
two years, against the advice of all her family, she 
joined the secular order of the Good Samaritans. 
Religious doubt had come upon her ; doubt from 
which she believed the only relief lay in active 
Christian work. No vows beyond that of obedi- 
ence to the pastor and "sister in charge" were 
required ; but this single one proved a hard one 
for Sister Dora, who was put through severe disci- 
pline in cooking, scrubbing, and bed-making by 
her " sister in charge." "It was good forme," 
she said ; but she was glad, after a time, to have 
her taste for nursing gratified by being set at 
hospital work in Walsall, in the "Black Country." 
This was in 1865; and here the remaining thirteen 
years of her life were spent. It was on the edge 
of the great coal and iron district of England, — a 
manufacturing town, dirty, smoky, and disagree- 
able. The people divide their lives between hard 
labor in the mines and drunkenness and vice out 
of them. They join to narrow-mindedness an 
independence that resents the least interference; 
but they have rugged virtues of their own, and 
boundless gratitude to those who really help them. 
As accidents were of constant occurrence in the 
mines, the local authorities had asked the Good 
Samaritans to establish a small hospital, and it 
had been in existence two years when Sister Dora 
was sent to it. At first she was only assistant, 
having had little experience and no training in 



the difficult art of nursing ; but she showed such 
aptitude, that before the year came around she was 
wanted as head. Just at this time her father fell 
ill 9 and desired to see her at once. She tele- 
graphed to her superiors for leave to go to him. 
It was refused, and with an overstrained sense of 
duty to her self-chosen masters, she did not go. 
But strong resentment against the sisterhood fol- 
lowed. When, nine years later, she broke with it 
entirely, she said to a friend, "I am a woman, 
not a piece of furniture." She might have mar- 
ried now, and her friends urged her to do so. 
But she had chosen the narrower way, convinced 
that her powers would find there their fullest 
exercise, and that only in such work could she 
stifle the doubts that still troubled her. To forget 
her remorse over her father's death she plunged 
more than ever into her work, turning all her 
mind to the technical training needed. The sur- 
geon in charge finding soon that she had wit, 
spirit, courage, and common sense, declared it 
should not be his fault if she were not well taught. 
She learned soon to be very expert in setting 
simple fractures, and dressing wounds and burns. 
Despite the painfulness of much of her work, the 
repulsion of loathsome disease and horrible acci- 
dent, her intense pity and longing to relieve kept 
her always at her post. By 1868 she had sole 
charge of an hospital of twenty-eight beds, with an 
out-patient list of many more. These outside 
patients came daily to the hospital for treatment; 
but whenever she could spare time or "make a 
half hour" by going without a meal, she went to 
their houses, often in back alleys and slums, to 
care for them there. Often she stayed nights 
with them, and this even in a small-pox epidemic 
when deserted by all their friends. One instance 
of this is given which recalls the legends of St. 
Elizabeth. A poor man, feeling himself dying, 
sent for her. His family were gone ; a neighbor 
sat by him, and but a tiny end of a candle lit the 
room. She sent the neighbor out with money to 
buy light while she sat with him ; but the woman 
did not return. As the candle was going out, he 
raised himself with an effort, and said, " Sister, 
kiss me before I die." Loathsome with disease 
as he was, she took him in her arms and kissed 
him, and then sat all night in the darkness by 
him, not knowing until the dawn but some spark 
of life remained in him. 

Amputations were of course often necessary 

among her patients, and with the grief of the 
victims over their loss she had the deepest sym- 
pathy. In one case, against the judgment of the 
surgeon, she promised to save a man his right 
arm. Against his predictions of the man's certain 
death she did so. It was a three weeks' struggle, 
and "Oh, how I prayed over that arm !" she said 
afterward. He was called always after " Sister's 
Arm," and once when she was ill he walked every 
Sunday eleven miles to inquire after her, saying 
always to the porter, "Tell her 'twas ^rarm rung 
the bell then, will you?" Her love for children 
was a passion, and her care over them tenderer 
than a mother's. When the dirty, miserable 
things were brought in, she took them instantly 
in her arms, carrying them about on one arm 
while she dressed wounds and attended to other 
duties with the other; talking at once to child 
and adult patient, telling stories and soothing it 
to sleep in spite of pain. While in the hospital 
they were her own. She constantly had one, 
sometimes two, with her nights, and "has been 
known to sleep with a burnt baby on each arm." 
Those who know the sickening smell of burns can 
best appreciate this selfTsacrifice. 

Against drunkenness, the prevailing vice of the 
district, she waged constant warfare. Called up, 
as she often was, in the night to dress wounds 
gained in drunken brawls, she would do her work 
in her own gentle way, and then ask "why they 
did not behave, instead of fighting and getting 
her up at such unearthly hours to mend their 
broken heads." She never wearied in the work 
of reform, and many were saved by her efforts, 
though the difficulties of the work were immense. 
What she accomplished was by individual effort, 
by letting them feel that she cared for each one, 
that she prayed for each one, and should remem- 
ber them after they left the hospital. She never 
tried to cram religion down their throats, but 
prayer was as much a part of her work as watch- 
ing. Patients waking in the night sometimes 
found her by their beds pouring out her soul to 
God for them ; and her faith in answers was firm. 
"It was literally true that she never touched a 
wound without lifting up her heart to God, asking 
that healing might be conveyed by her means; 
that she never set a fracture without a prayer 
that the limb might unite." To a friend she 
writes, " My heart runs over in thankfulness that 
I have been allowed to minister to his sick and 



suffering." And again, " I grudge every moment 
I must spend in taking care of this body." She, 
who spent hours over others, might at the last 
have taken up St. Francis's cry, "I have sinned 
against my brother, the body." Yet she was no 
useless ascetic, mortifying the flesh for ecstatic 
contemplations. Utterly natural, without a trace 
of morbid melancholy or cant about her, tender- 
hearted, but not at all sentimental, she relieved 
the constant strain put on her by her work by the 
frankest fun. Her ready wit and cheerfulness 
were invaluable in the wards. " She'd make you 
laugh when you were dying," one patient said. 
The dignity and beauty of her presence awed the 
roughest men into respect, and if that did not 
suffice, she had other ways. One man persisted 
in swearing while she was caring for him. . " I 
must say something," he persisted, when she 
begged him to stop. " Say poker and tongs 
then," she answered, her ready wit finding a 
remedy like Jeanne Dare's with her soldiery. 

Quite solitary as far as companionship went, too 
devoted to her work to have time for friendships, 
always giving and spending for others, she could 
yet, in 1870, write of "her happy life. Every- 
body is so good and kind, I am only afraid I shall 
get spoiled." 

From six in the morning till ten at night she 
was on duty. Regular nurses under her she did 
not have. Two servants managed the domestic 
work, and women who came to be trained, and 
who, therefore, were constantly changing, were 
her helpers. " I can always sit up seven nights if 
I rest the eighth," she said, merrily; and indeed 
her endurance was something marvelous. First 
up and last down, doing the lowest drudgery 
sooner than ask any one else to do it; just a 
touch of human selfishness in her wish to be sole 
and supreme in the house. In 1875 for six months 
she took charge of an epidemic hospital at Walsall. 
Small-pox was raging in the town, but the people 
would not go there for treatment, and concealed 
cases from the authorities. ** If I go, they will 
come," Sister Dora said, and so it proved. Or if 
they did not, she went after them, lifting them 
from their beds, and carrying them in her strong 
arms to the ambulance. A porter and two old 
women were her only helpers, and except the 
physician, she could see no one from the outside 
world. There was a little bravado in her task. 
She had not expected to survive the strain ; she 

had even hoped that it might be the end. A 
harder struggle than this lay before her, and there 
is something very touching in the story of her two 
years' fight against the disease which finally killed 
her; a solitary fight, only her physician knowing 
the truth, and he bound to secrecy. Her excuse 
was that she wished to keep at her work as long as 
possible, and if the truth were known, her friends 
would not allow this. Her motto had always 
been, " Work while the day lasts," and now with 
the shadows dropping over her own life she could 
not give up. But another reason for secrecy was 
her strange reserve of character, her morbid dread 
of sympathy. She, who had always been so strong, 
so self-sufficing as far as human help went, could 
not bear now to become an object of pity. The 
disease was cancer, and entailed constant suffer- 
ing ; yet until a few months of her death she kept 
at her post. Even when forced to take to her bed, 
she would have only a common servant to care fo^ 
her, and would not let her own sisters come to her, 
passionately determined to endure to the end alone. 
The wound was dressed for weeks by herself; then, 
as she grew worse, by the physician, with only such 
help as she could give. To the last she concealed 
her sufferings, greeted friends with jests and smile, 
and only when alone gave way before the uncon- 
trollable agony to groan aloud and pray audibly 
for patience. Her greatest care was to fill her 
place at the hospital, and this was done satisfac- 
torily just before her death. Release came to her 
on Christmas Eve, 1878, and at the last the cloud 
of doubt rolled away. "I see Him there; the 
gates are opened wide," she said; and then the 
old proud reserve asserting itself, she sent every 
one out of the room. " I have lived alone, let 
me die alone, let me die alone !" For hours they 
watched through the half-opened door, till a change 
of position told them it was all over. 

Is it strange that around such a life a legendary 
growth of vision and miracle should at once be 
formed among the wild people she had served? 
To them she had been something more than 
mortal, — a guardian angel, under whose wings lay 
strength and healing for all. V She was as like 
the Lord Jesus Christ as any human creature could, 
be," one of them said on her death. Like Him 
she had never despaired of any human soul. Every 
slum in the town was known to her. No door so 
low, no den so degraded, that she did not enter it. 
Midnight missions, Sunday Bible-classes among 



her patients; faithful, persistent, personal work 
both for souls and bodies. One man, whose life 
she had saved, never pronounced her name with- 
out rising and pulling his forelock, as if he had 
said the name of a saint or an angel. "What 
we felt for her I couldn't tell you," he said- 
"My tongue won't say it." And many similar 
instances might be given of the reverence paid her 
by these subjects of her ministrations and care. 
With full heart and soul she had answered the call : 

" The Son of God goes forth to war. 
Who follows in His train?" 

If her warfare was not long, it was enough to 
prove her full devotion, and to earn, we may 
hope, its rich reward in lives made better by her 
influence. Her story, indeed, makes comprehensi- 
ble the legends of her sisters of an earlier time, 
and we cannot do less than mark with a white 
stone of memory this life full of beneficent activity 
and loving faith. 



By Robert C. Myers 

Mrs. Growley buried her face in her apron 
and cried; then, hearing her husband's step in 
the passage, dried her eyes and tried to look 
majestic. But Mr. Growley only looked in at 
the door, frowned, and went away with an un- 
happy look. Before these last three months there 
had not been a happier couple than this, and the 
wife's beaming face had been a sight to look upon as 
she repeated nightly to her more prosaic husband 
the novel she had read that day. Before this, too, 
she had known to the fullest the extent of the 
family exchequer; but since October a veil, as 
she said, had fallen, and she was in a delirious 
maze. Then she noted that Tobias looked nervous, 
and hated to be much in her company. She did 
not know that her suspicious movements caused 
this : she had watched him ; she had in a little 
while dropped the pleasant look from her face, 
and in many ways had insinuated that she was an 
ill-treated wife. Then in the shop (stationery 
and the like) she had seen him surreptitiously 
reading the morning papers, and the papers would 
come to her with paragraphs clipped out, and 
she would be compelled, from a sense of her 
rights, to go out and purchase fresh papers in 
order to see what those abstracted paragraphs 
were about ; and she saw that they all related 
to orphan-asylums and homes for friendless chil- 
dren — and was Tobias an orphan and a homeless 
child ? At first she was on the point of going 
boldly to her husband and asking him about it; 
but when she thought she would do this another 
thought obliterated this one — she had her rights ! 

Her reading had taught her her way was to be the 
silently injured. Yet she must unburden herself to 
some one. She went to Mrs. Simpson, next door, 
for Mrs. Simpson was kind, was always saying to 
her that she didn't think she looked quite so well 
as usual, and told such delightfully horrible tales 
of sickness that she quite won one's heart. So 
one day when Tobias had been watched closer 
than usual, and had looked up and perceived his 
wife regarding him through a crack in the door, 
she went to Mrs. Simpson and told her the veil 
had fallen: she showed Mrs. Simpson the para- 
graphs in the papers. 

"Mrs. Growley," she said, "I hope I may be 
wrong; but I have my suspicions." 

"And what are they?" asked Mrs. Growley, 

"As his wife, you should know them," said 
Mrs. Simpson; "though if Simpson were to be so 
accused I think I should first tear every blessed 
hair from his head and then have a spasm, and 
all the doctors in town should tell him he had 
murdered me. It is my opinion your husband 
thinks he was stolen in his youth, and is a lord or 
something and above you and wants to get rid of 

Mrs. Growley rose up pale before her. 

"I have my suspicions," she said; "and if I 

only " She did not finish, for her breath 

failed. She prepared to go soon after this, and 
in reply to Mrs. Simpson's advice not to take it 
too hard, she said : "lam a woman, Phoebe, an 
injured woman. I cried when my baby died, the 



only child I ever had, and whose death led me to 
novel-reading, the real romantic kind, as a pana- 
cea; but now I am glad that it is a little angel in 
heaven rather than it should see this day." Then 
she went to the door. 

"What are you intending to do, Jane?" asked 
Mrs. Simpson, a little pale in spite of herself. 

"I am a woman," said Mrs. Growley, and 
walked away. 

Poor Simpson had hard times of it now when he 
came home, for his wife talked mysteriously about 
the deceit of men, and eyed him fixedly. But 
what was the system practiced by Mrs. Growley? 
She had said she was a woman ; she had suspicions, 
but not Mrs. Simpson's; she watched her hus- 
band openly thereafter. When he read the papers 
and clipped them, she got her papers and clipped 
them before his very eyes. She kept an account 
of all the sales of the shop ; when a customer came, 
she was on the alert and found the amount paid 
in ; at the end of the week she went to the box 
where the money was kept and invariably found 
that what was there was far short of the actual 
sales. She refused to speak with Tobias, and she 
let him see that she was nerving herself for an 
effort. He grew pale and fidgety, but he made 
no effort to gain her confidence. Such an unhappy 
home as it was, such a different home from what 
it had usually been ; all the romances in the world 
could offer little cheer now. There was no child 
to stand between them arid bring them closer 
together with the love it had for each ; far away 
in the quiet churchyard was a little mound that 
told that " Billy, only and beloved child of Tobias 
and Jane Growley, aged one year," reposed there. 
All tenderness was over now, though ; there need 
be no thought of that little Billy who had died so 
long ago, and left their hearts sore and lonely for 
many a day, — that little Billy whose brother or 
sister had never come. For now the leviathan 
suspicion had been born, suspicion such as yet she 
could not tell even Mrs. Simpson. Everywhere 
Tobias moved he was sure of being scrutinized ; 
everywhere Mrs. Growley looked she was sure of 
seeing Tobias. He would look around often when 
he heard boys in the street, and would dart out 
and seize the raggedest boy there and whisper 
something in his ear and would then come in 
again. If he went out, his wife would come to the 
door and look after him, and he knew it, and 
would turn around and see her. And Christmas 

was coming, too, and was only two weeks off! 
What a sorry Christmas was promised these two I 
Mrs. Growley refused to make mince-meat, refused 
to have anything to do with cakes, and she and 
pudding were strangers. She got into the habit 
of keeping her bonnet and shawl on all the time, 
so that she could follow Tobias when he went out, 
which he did frequently now ; she shadowed him 
into a gloomy street to a gloomy house, which 
swallowed him up. A dozen times would not 
excuse his visits to that house. 

Mrs. Simpson was indefatigable now, though, 
and pitied her neighbor to her heart's content, 
and sent in little savory messes and invalid food 
for her. For days not a word would be said by 
either Mr. and Mrs. Growley, and the poor woman 
was wretched indeed. What had she done to de- 
serve this ? what had she ever done that Tobias 
should be interested in orphan -asylums and homes 
for friendless children ? He an orphan and a 
friendless child? No, never ! But once when he 
rested at night beside her — just the third night 
before Christmas — he got up in the dark and 
groped out of the chamber silently into the sitting- 
room, and she arose and followed. She saw him 
get the family Bible and turn over the leaves and 
find a certain place and look at it, and then put 
something there ; then he looked up to the door 
suspiciously, as was his wont now, and she scuttled 
back to bed. No more sleep for her to-night ; oh, 
the baseness of the man, to put even the Bible 
into requisition ! Tobias came back to bed, and 
sighing heavily, as well he might, soon fell into a 
refreshing slumber. "Don't tell me that the 
innocent sleep soundly," said Mrs. Growley; 
"for the guilty do too." She could hardly wait 
till daylight, that she might go and search the 

It was time to rise at last ; she got her husband's 
breakfast; no one should ever say she neglected 
her duty, for she had promised that much when 
she had married him twelve years ago — and was 
she not a woman ? But when she had cleared the 
things away she went softly up to the sitting-room 
and opened the Bible ; there — there was a gleam- 
ing pile of gold and silver which Tobias had 
placed there ! And upon what part of the Scrip- 
ture had it been placed ? Ah ! she put her hands 
before her eyes, and could -scarcely see for the 
tears that blinded her and splashed down upon 
the page where the marks of old tears blurred 



the writing, for she read, "Died, upon Christmas 
day, our little Billy,. ten years ago." Oh, Billy, 
Billy! she had wept for you when she was far 
younger, ahd when her husband had held her to 
him before that mute registry of sorrow, while his 
tears had fallen with hers; and when he wrote the 
poor little words no wonder he wrote them crook- 
edly and tremulously. But now, to think that he 
should have placed the money here, upon that 
place of all others! Her tears grew angry; she 
hated him ! He insulted even the memory of 
their child! Then she felt faint; a great light 
broke upon her. Suppose it was not her child ? 
suppose she had not brought it into the world? 
suppose Tobias's contrition made him look up her 
own child lost in orphan -asylums and homes for 
friendless children? She laughed wildly at her 
own foolishness, but she stopped short ; Mrs. 
Simpson and sensational novels were working ; 
she had not read sweet tales of romance for 
nothing. Suppose her own blessed child had been 
swapped for another in its cradle? suppose her hus- 
band was already a married man when he married 
her? suppose he had two wives living? No, she 
was not Billy's mother ; her own child, for all she 
knew, was a vagrant in the streets. Then who 
was Billy? Billy was his father's child, but he 
was none of hers; and he had been palmed off on 
her to care for because his father loved his mother. 
She was thoroughly dazed by the weighty logic of 
her reasoning; she closed the book and put her 
hand to her head to try to remember. No use, no 
use ; memory even was false to her, and she only 
knew that she was an injured woman. But Tobias? 
Where was Tobias now while she had lingered so 
long here? She hurried down-stairs only to see 
him going out. She went too; she saw him far 
before her, stopping ragged boys. What road was 
this he was taking ? Surely not to the church- 
vard? It was even so. With her heart like lead, 
she followed and saw him go into the silent 
meadow, pass along the paleness of the graveyard, 
and, singling out a little mound, lean his head 
down as she had so often seen him do at the same 
spot. Oh, it was Billy's grave ! She saw it all : 
Billy was not her child ; Tobias could not act 
as he did and she Billy's mother. She hurried 
home as fast as she could, and then she gave up 
romance ; she burned every sickly sentimental 
novel she had, and the very extravagance of this 
fancy had appealed to her long ago as sympa- 

thetic when her grief was wild and drearily illogi- 
cal, when she was a poor mother whose only child 
was newly gone from her. She took the laudanum 
bottle from the closet and hid it in her bosom. 
All the tales she had read could not keep agony 
from her, but they could exert their influence to 
the very last; she would keep the laudanum until 
Christmas day, the anniversary of Billy's death, 
and then, ha, ha ! she would die then, and Tobias 
would understand. Ridiculous as she reasoned, 
she felt that no viler accusation must be urged 
against her husband ; she had known him too 
long for that. She saw him come home from the 
churchyard ; full of her purpose, she let the night 
come down, and the next morning, the day before 
Christmas, usher its strength into this naughty, 
heedless world ; full of this purpose, she heard her 
husband call out to. a miserable-looking woman 
who passed the shop, " Remember to-night, 
Nancy," and the woman had nodded. " To- 
night ! To-night ! Aha !" Stonily she went to 
Mrs. Simpson. 

"Phoebe," she said, "come with me to-night; 
I want to follow Tobias." 

She would have Mrs. Simpson along as a wit- 
ness, for now she meant to follow her husband, and 
wherever he went there to quaff her laudanum. 

"Jane," said Mrs. Simpson, "I have been true 
to you ; I will go, — and Simpson shall go too ; 
for lately I have not allowed him out of my sight, 
and he, too, shall behold whatever it is you have 
to show me." 

Poor Simpson ! he was but a meek man at best. 
Nothing passed the lips of Mrs. Growley that day, 
her last on earth ; the tragedy of the bottle in 
her bosom was imminent. Tobias seemed pre- 
occupied, if not a little happy; he wiped his eyes 
on a sheet of blotting-paper once, and did not 
discover his mistake. If he only knew that to- 
morrow he would be a widower, — that is, that 
the Mrs. Growley in this shop would be no more ! 
At dinner-time he seemed anxious to say some- 
thing to her, but she withered him with a look. 
After dinner, without a word, he came around the 
table to her and stooped and kissed her upon the 
forehead. She started from him, angrily wiping 
the spot with her napkin. 

" The kiss of the asp," she hissed, as he closed 
the door behind him. 

But night came down, and the sounds of revelry 
in the streets were many and varied. Mrs. 



Growley hated the noise, hated everything but 
vengeance, — she is firmly convinced to this day 
that she was a raving maniac at that time. She 
sought Mrs. Simpson, and got her to peep out 
and report when Tobias left the shop, and sat 
down and hugged up her bottled death. When 
the report came, the three sallied forth. 

"But he's disappeared," said Simpson, looking 
up and down the street. 

"Adolph, I am astonished at you, M said his 
wife, freezingly. 

"But he has disappeared," responded he, 

"Again, Adolph," said his wife, "I am aston- 
ished at you. Let this not occur again, or you 
shall know that all poor wives are not so helpless 
as Jane, here." 

"Why this bickering?" asked Mrs. Growley, 
as one appealed to. " Follow me. I think I know 
where to find him." 

So they followed her. It was for all the world 
like a chapter out of one of the sweet bloodcurd- 
ling stories ; they came to the gloomy street, even 
to the gloomy house. Into the entry they went, 
and up the stairs, and stood and looked into a 
large, well-lighted room. Ha ! the mystery was 
about to be solved; they had reached the last 
volume of the romance. And what did they see? 
In the room were forty or fifty poverty-stricken 
women and children ; in the middle of the room 
was a huge table upon which were eatables and 
drinkables, and warm clothing, and all manner of 
needful things, besides some toys and candies, 
and the quiet in the room was made up for by 
the Christmas noises floating up from the street. 
And there was Nancy and there was Tobias. But 
hush ! there were lame children and sick children, 
big children, little children, pretty ones and ugly 
ones, and all manner of children ; and their 
mothers were like them, only that their faces 
were sad and pinched and pathetic with suffer- 
ing. What was Tobias saying? 

"Children," he said, "for whose sake were all 
these good things got together, — these eatables 
and drinkables, and warm clothing, and toys and 
candies, — for whose sake are they here?" 

"For Billy's sake," answered they all in chorus. 

" And what festival do we celebrate ?" asked he. 

" The birth of Christ," answered the chorus. 

"Mothers and children," said Tobias, "you 
all know how years and years ago Christ came 

upon earth and went about doing good and loving 
little children and healing sick people and pitying 
the poor; nobody was too ragged or dirty for 
Him to notice, nobody was too wicked or lost for 
Him to care for and bring into gladness and joy. 
Then, when I lost my little boy ten years ago, 
and my dear wife, — whom I wish was here now, 
and could see you all, and see me, too, that I 
brought you here, — my dear wife, who is (ah, 
well !) kept at home, not feeling very bright, 
though I do not know what ails her, and am wor- 
ried to death about her, — well, when our little boy 
died ten years ago, on Christmas day, I felt that 
God was cruel to take him upon his own Son's 
birthday. But I've got over that, though never 
until about three months ago, when I made a 
goodish bit of money one week, and saw in a 
flash that I, too, might do some little good on 
Christmas day, and maybe atone for my harsh 
thoughts of God by doing it — for whose sake, 
my dears?" 

"For Billy's sake," came the chorus once more. 

"Yes, for Billy's sake," said Tobias; "and so 
1 went and got you all together, little by little, 
one from here, one from there, and brought you 
to this room, which I rented for the purpose; and 
I've spared a little money each week and put it in 
the Bible on the page where I had written down 
my little child's death ; and' I have taught you 
some Bible-lessons and have tried to get you 
situations, and have succeeded oftener than not ; 
and I have gone to orphan -asylums and homes for 
friendless children, — think of it ! a child to be 
friendless, when Jesus loved them so ! — and I have 
talked with the managers, and have taken little 
waifs from the streets to those places — and for 
whose sake?" 

"For Billy's sake," from the chorus. 

"Right again! And to show you that the 
least of us can do some little good to our suffering 
fellows if love inspires us. So now you are here, 
and to-morrow is Christmas day, and " 

Tobias could not say anything more. But 
Nancy came up to him and touched his hand. 

"You told me about Christ," she said, "and 
you got me a place in a hospital as nurse — was 
this for your dead baby's sake?" 

"And," said another poor woman with a lame 
child, "you found a situation for my husband, 
and you sent a doctor to my little lame boy — 
was this for your dead child's sake?" 



"And you sent us food and coal/' cried others, 
"and you gave us kind words and money, although 
you are anything but a rich man. And was this 
for Billy's sake?" 

"Oh, dear people," cried Tobias, the tears 
rolling down his face, "suppose my little boy had 
lived and his parents had died — who would have 
cared much for him? Suppose I do all the little 
that I have done for the sake of the love I bear 
his dear mother, now my wife for twelve years, 
although there seems a cloud upon us now, 
and " 

"A cloud!" said Nancy; "your wife cannot 
be a good woman not to love you." 

" Hush !" he said, gently ; "my wife is a good, 
loving, true woman, and she cares for me. But I 
thought &t first not to tell her of all this until to- 
night, as a sort of surprise ; besides, she might 
have cried so much, remembering her little boy. 
But, somehow or other, she has seemed to misun- 
derstand me, and maybe she don't see so much in 
me to care for as formerly; for she reads about 
fine men and heroes in novels, and I'm not much 
to look at, at best. But I do not mean to make 
you -less happy ! See, all these things here are 
yours; your names are on all the articles. Wait ! 
It is five minutes to twelve; I know you will 
pardon me for keeping you up so late. Wait! 
In five minutes you will have the blessed Christ- 

mas day, and you must say, all together, ' Christ 
is born. Peace on earth, and good-will toward 

t ?? 


Then he knelt upon the floor, and all the poor 
people knelt around him, and he held his face fn 

, his hands, and said, softly, "Billy, my little boy 1" 
And there was a convulsive cry in the entry, and 
the door burst open, and the people were on their 
feet in an instant, for Mrs. Growley had caught 
her husband to her. 

" Oh, Tobias," she cried, " Tobias, Tobias " 

. That was all she could say, although she cried 
ever so hard. 

And so did Mrs. Simpson, who kissed her own 
husband rapturously. And all the poor women 
crowded around them. And Mr. Simpson shook 
hands with Tobias's coat-tail, while Mrs. Simpson 

i fainted among the candies. 

"Oh, I understand it all, I understand it all!" 
sobbed Mrs. Growley; "and, oh, ray husband, 
forgive me ! I am not good enough for you, — I 
am a cruel woman. I have been a dead woman ; 

but now " 

"Christ is born!" said a solemn voice, and 
Nancy stood beside her, and the clock was strik- 

i ing, and Christmas day was here ! And gentle 

, understanding was born with "good-will and 
peace toward men," such as all the romances in 

■ the world could not possibly describe. 


By G. S. S. R. 

On a starlit night of September, both pleasantly \ 
warm and pleasantly cool, — in fact, one of those 
delicious autumn evenings when no one has any j 
complaint to make concerning the weather, and 
just after an impressive evening meeting in the 
worship of God by a service suited to all sects, 
denominations, and creeds, — we gazed out of the 
chapel window on a sight wondrous and strange. \ 
Some three-score or more of gentlemen were filing \ 
out into the evening air, chatting, joking, and 
laughing in such a good-humored, friendly way, 
that we could not help wondering what might be 
the moving cause for such genial intercourse. • So 
different from the outside world ; for they were 
filing out into a broad courtyard scrupulously j 

clean, beautiful, and adorned with circlets, here 
and there, of flowers, yet entirely separated by 
solid walls from the busy hum of outer life. And 
very odd it seemed to us, when chairs, benches, 
and tables were brought into requisition, and the 
bright lights of cigars were dancing about like 
fire-bugs among the different parties or groups, — 
some at their dominoes, and some more congenial 
spirits telling their experiences or spinning yarns, 
— that there should be such an entire absence of 
caste distinction, and that such genuine social 
democracy should prevail among these men. 

Greatly impressed with the novelty of the posi- 
tion and the incidents which gave rise to our 
wonderment, we addressed a little gentleman 



standing by our side, begging an explanation of 
the singular circumstance. With a merry twinkle 
of his shrewdish eyes, he answered us: "We're all 
in the same boat here, sir, high and low, and 
treated just alike. That gentleman you see over 
there, that stout party, is worth a hundred thousand 
dollars, and just look beyond him, a little to the 
right, at that neat-looking young* man — 'pon my 
word, I don't believe he's got a second shirt ! 
Some kind friend has put him here ; but it makes 
no difference in this place, except that the one 
pays for a private room, which I wouldn't do if I 
could, as I am fond of company when it's good." 
And so on, from time to time, he pointed out to us 
a judge, a lawyer, literary men, and others of a 
dozen guilds. 

We had strolled out together, as he said this, 
to obtain a closer view and to mingle in the 
animated scene. It was then that we noticed, for 
the first time, the absence of wine or liquor of 
any kind. Dominoes were being played without 
a stake, and merriment ran rampant without the 
aid of a stimulant. Merriment, indeed, seemed to 
be the order of the day, and we especially noticed 
the fact that the young man chaperoning us was 
considerably infected with the spirit of good 
humor, and seemingly possessed of the wonderful 
faculty of listening appreciatively to several jokes 
at the same time. 

"And do you mean to say," we asked, "that 
all these well-dressed men are inmates of the 

" Inmates or graduates, every one of them, 
both officers and men ; and your question suggests 
a little incident," he went on to say; and we may 
mention here that we found the young man pos- 
sessed of a fund of happy incidents, many of 
which he related to us during our brief visit, but 
a few only of which we shall have space to re- 
hearse in our article. "A party of ladies," he 
said, " were visiting the Home, when, after having 
been shown the library, the chapel, and other 
parts of the buildings, one of them, while looking 
rather curiously out upon this very scene, ex- 
claimed, • Oh, sir, we've seen enough of all these 
things; won't you please show us the drunkards.' " 
Laughingly, he continued, "You see she took 
us all for the board of directors!" With this, 
our friend went off into a very hearty laugh, in 
which we joined, both ending in a hearty guffaw, 
when he concluded by saying, "She thought all 

the drunkards were kept in cages, in a menagerie 

Desiring to obtain some more profitable infor- 
mation concerning this institution, we bid our 
young friend a "good-evening," and joined a 
staid and rather sad-looking gentleman, who, we 
had observed, mingled less freely with the others. 
He took us at once for a fellow-inmate, an im- 
pression which we did not deem essential for our 
purpose to remove. In the course of his conver- 
sation he informed us that his had been a very 
bad case, and that he had been kept secluded 
from the public rooms and the society of the 
Home for several days. "And I thank God for 
it 1" he exclaimed; " for, when a man has lost all 
self-control, he ought to feel thankful that he has 
friends to control him kindly — mind you, I say 
kindly — until he gets to be himself again.". A 
dim perception that our friend had been some- 
what out of his mind began to dawn upon us. In 
answer to our quest Ton as to how he had been 
treated while thus secluded, he replied: "They 
give you a non-alcoholic tonic of some kind, 
instead of liquor, as in the hospitals, . together 
with care and sympathy, — two medicines, my 
friend, that you won't find in the Pharmacopoeia, 
nor always even among your own kindred, espe- 
cially if yours is a drunkard's home. Even if you 
should have it there, they are very apt to lack in 
the judgment and experience essential to your 
rescue and restoration to your proper self and 

Here we were interrupted by our young friend 
before mentioned, who proceeded, without much 
ceremony, to relate what had just transpired on a 
bench beyond us. "Jones, an ex-temperance 
lecturer, and one of the kind who thinks there is 
too much religion in the temperance cause, and 
Baggy, who is just out of the infirmary, are sitting 
over there together," he went on to say. "Jones 
is wondering what he will do when he goes out 
into the world again, to make a living. Says 
Baggy, who, I believe, is the most melancholic 
and worst used-up specimen ever within these 
walls, • Why, Mr. Jones, I'll tell you a good 
thing to do : go to lecturing again, and carry me 
along to exhibit as a horrible example.'" Our 
sad-looking companion found a smile to spare on 
this, and the smile and the contagious merriment 
of the little merrymaker seemed to unlock the 
doors of his communicativeness, as he resumed : 



" I was going on to say, sir ; now, when a party 
commences thus, it is a good thing to take out 
your watch and note the time," which we did, 
and think it had the effect of confining him to 
some of his best points. But before we rehearse 
either the grateful feelings or philosophical reflec- 
tions of this sober companion, on the quips and 
anecdotes of the curious young fellow who thus 
spent his leisure in laughing away care, it might 
be as well to state, for the benefit of the reader, 
that we were in the Franklin Reformatory Home, 
of the city of Philadelphia, an institution for the 
permanent reformation of those inebriates who 
desire it, — an institution which has already been 
the means, in its brief existence of half a score 
of years, of permanently reclaiming hundreds of 
despairing inebriates, and which is now recog- 
nized all over the world as the pioneer enterprise 
in this direction, — an institution which, by the 
grace of God, is beginning to practically stem 
the overwhelming tide of drunkenness, poverty, 
misery, and crime, each in its turn the sequence 
of the other. 

" You -asked me to tell you something about the 
infirmary," our friend continued. "Well, it is 
nothing more than a bedroom, furnished com- 
fortably but plainly, so that dirt or violence does 
as little damage as possible. It has grated win- 
dows, and a heavy door that bolts outside. It 
is therefore proof against a man breaking out for 
liquor again while the passionate craving is still 
upon him. But no man is, or ever was; locked up 
here against his will when he was sober and 
reasonable. When he voluntarily agrees to rest 
here under control, while realizing during a few 
lucid moments that it is his only hope, of course, 
when he becomes delirious, he is kept here against 
his will until his senses are restored. But as soon 
as -his delirium has passed away he is liberated 
and has the freedom of the Home and its grounds 
granted him, and where, as you have witnessed, 
he will be offered the hand of fellowship by all he 
meets, and who have undergone a like experience 
with himself. And'we are all ready to thank God 
that we have come to the Home. After dwell- 
ing here for a week, or until his health is in a 
measure restored, he can go about his ordinary 
avocation, but returns at night, and while here — 
through the religious, the moral, the social, and 
the physical influences employed in the manage- 
ment — he is temporarily reformed, and there are 

hundreds of bright examples in this city, country, 
and foreign lands even, who can testify that they 
have been, through the grace of God, permanently 

'"'My friend," continued the gentleman, sol- 
emnly, "it saves a man's self-respect to know that 
he gave himself up to the treatment of the Home, 
which is neither a prison nor an asylum, of his own 
accord ; and you ask me how they treat him while 
his liberty is restrained ? Well, a considerate 
watchman is placed near him day and night lest 
anything should happen ill ; his meals are specially 
cooked, and composed of such things as are pala- 
table to the sick and easy oT digestion ; while at 
various times he is visited by the superintendent, 
the physician, or the nurse, who, in quiet, sooth- 
ing tones, ministers to the misery of the despairing 
heart or the tortures of the disordered and delir- 
ious mind." Here our friend became silent for 
awhile, his memory seemingly recurring to those 
dark days of hideous waking dreams or sleepless 
nights when he was the miserable victim of his 
drunken phantasies. Suddenly starting to his feet, 
he exclaimed : "I did not come here merely to get 
over a drunk, — that is not what this institution is 
for, — but to permanently reform, and, with the 
help of God and friends whom he has sent, I 
believe it is done through the influence of this 

We were inclined to believe with him that in 
his case it was done. The earnestness of his 
speech and manner had in them that genuine 
something which we sometimes call the "true 

Several times since we have visited the Home, 
making the acquaintance of its officers and many 
inmates, and we could lengthen this article to an 
almost indefinite extent with what we heard and 
saw, — things that we had never before seen or 
dreamed of. On one occasion we remember being 
much impressed by hearing one after another of a 
group of ten or twelve relate some short experi- 
ences, which would end substantially thus: "Yes, 
gentlemen, rum is a terrible thing," or, "rum is, 
indeed, a damnable thing," and we found that 
this condemnation was shared in by every man 
in the place. One of the parties in this group 
exclaimed, with much irony: "All drunkards are 
good fellows, it is said. I tell you what, boys, 
they earn this reputation by wasting their money 
over the bar, treating an impecunious friend or 



crowd, while likely the little children are starving 
at home. I remember," said he, "a book-keeper 
who used to work at the same desk with me. He 
was a good-hearted fellow until he fell into the 
habit of drinking socially, first wine, 'just* to 
promote a little genial fellowship,' as he put it, 
and after awhile to liking his ' genial fellowship* 
a little stronger, and more of it. I remember well, 
on one occasion, finding him in his room busy at 
some literary work, under the influence of a bottle 
of whisky, — his 'inspiration,' as he called it, — 
nor do I forget when money was plenty with him, 
and he was hailed among his roystering compan- 
ions as ' the prince of good fellows.' Often have 
I seen him presiding over the punch-bowl, and 
over the meeting of some half a dozen boon com- 
panions, to have 'a jolly evening all around.' 
He was witty and well-read, a good musician, and 
somewhat of a poet. It is hardly necessary to 
mention that selections from Moore's melodies, 
German drinking-songs, or Byron unabridged 
formed the musical and poetical staple of these 
reveling, frolicsome nights, when 

••• 'Neath the bowl with flowers of soul 
The brightest wit can find us, 
Let's take a trip toward heaven to-night, 
And leave dull earth behind us,' 

would end in a dull, almost dead, crowd before 
morning, when again it was : 

it € 

Fill the goblet high, 
For every drop we sprinkle 
O'er the brow of care 
Smoothes away a wrinkle/ 

But before long the wrinkles wouldn't smooth 
away any longer. It had ceased to be wine or 
beer. It was then a cocktail or a 'straight.' The 
poor fellow lost his situation, and afterward trou- 
bles followed troubles; he drank deeper and deeper 
still, and rum, which he had deemed his slave, 
had finally become his master. On one occasion, 
when he was 'full/ as it is called, a wan and 
pinched-faced little girl came shrinkingly into the 
whisky-shop where he was, and twining her frail 
hand within his, falteringly whispered, ' Dear 
father, won't you p-1-e-a-s-e come home? Mother 
hasn't even a crust of bread in the house.' His 
eyes fairly glared as he blurted out, boisterously 
and brutally, in answer to this plaintive appeal, 

•Tell her, then, d n her, to eat cake !' at the 

same time roughly shaking the little thing off; 

and then, turning to his companions, he ordered 
drinks for the crowd." 

It is astonishing how much talent lies torpid 
under the benumbing influence of strong drink. 
One of this same group, who had been confined 
in less comfortable quarters than the infirmary, 
told us of an experience which he had " below." 
"At midnight there were ushered into the cell 
two drunken companions in comparative rags. 
These learned ragamuffins spent the night, not in 
sleep, but in disputing about the difficult passages 
in the ' Iliad." ' Another of the party, in answer to 
a comrade who had lost his watch and chain on a 
"spree," and who had just remarked, "It must 

have been stolen," said: "Why, Mr. J , your 

sprees are not as desperate as mine, for I would 
probably have hung that watch and chain upon 
a lamp-post long before anybody dreamed of 
stealing it." 

Standing for a moment near several others, 
who appeared to be discussing a sermon of the 
Sunday evening previous, the remark was made, 
" A minister who preaches here probably finds a 
more critical audience than he expected." The 
immediate reply came, "No wonder; for we all 
of us have been in critical positions." In fact, 
some of the keenest wit and jolliest good humor is 
to be found in the society of the Home. Moving 
along a short distance we joined another party, 
one of whom was relating the circumstances of a 
man having applied for admission shortly before. 
"He was a six-footer, dressed well, and pretty 
well in for it," the relator said. In stating his 
case to the superintendent, the man said: "I'm 
drunk (hie), and I'm three hundred miles from 
hoo-me (hie), and I ain't got no more than about 
three dollars an' a half (hie), an,' oh, oh, oh, I'm 
bad lost, indeed I am ; I'm an awful sight worse 
lost than ever poor Charley Ross was, oh, oh !" 
Such a disgraceful exhibition of unmanliness, such 
a maudlin, lachrymose condition, is ever a cus- 
tomary adjunct to a drunkard's career, and if men 
■ were only reasonable (which they are not), one 
such experience ought to be enough. And this 
man had evidently been a gentleman, and sur- 
rounded by every influence designed to keep him 
in the narrow path. He was received by the 
Home, and we remember having him pointed out 
to us, being present on the day he made his first 
appearance among the other inmates. He was 
evidently a man of character, ability, and influ- 



ence, barring this one great failing, which eclipsed 
them all. 

It was evident to us also that the party relating 
this had been likewise signally benefited by the 
treatment which he had here received. He went 
on to say, "There came out at the same time 
another, a man whom we learned afterward to call 
Dick. In answer to the inevitable query, ' How 
do you feel now?' he exclaimed, 'Richard is 
himself again/ adding, sotto vocc> * Thank the 
good Lord I am somewhat of a man again. 1 " 

Thus, in relating decent jests, instructive ex- 
periences, and sometimes somewhat tragic in- 
cidents, connected with the Home, the time is 
made to pass pleasantly away. The patient is 
unconsciously gathering physical strength to go 
out into the world again, while the interesting 
and impressive services, held on Sundays and 
Tuesday evenings, with the meetings of the God- 
win Association, on Thursday evenings, tend to a 
gradual building-up of that moral strength and 
tone which shall enable an honest-hearted man to 
resist the machinations of the tempter. We be- 
came, in thecourse of our visits to the institution, 
acquainted with several other interesting cases of 
reformation effected. One of these was a bright 
youth, who had been admitted when in a drunken 
condition, in which state he had probably been 
for weeks. He was of respectable connections, 
with prospects before him of the most encouraging 
kind, but had slighted his opportunities for general 
education, slighted them when they opened up to 
him a learned profession, and slighted them again 
and again when an opening in business was offered, 
all on account of drink ; and now, after having 
wasted some of the best years of his life, in pick- 
ing up a smattering of terms and technicalities in 
and around livery-stables and saloons, had gradu- 
ated himself in the somewhat novel profession of 
a homeopathic horse-doctor. Brought under the 
treatment of the Home with its effective influences, 
he has become a new man, and we believe des- 
tined yet to make a useful and valuable member 
of society. 

We were on one occasion invited by one of the 
gentlemanly officers of the institution to inspect 
its comforts and conveniences, and which make it, 
in every tiue sense, really what it is termed, — a 
Home for graduates as well as inmates, for it is 
always open to them after they have gone out 
strengthened for their life-work again. And they 
Vol. XVI.— 6 

are expected to avail themselves of its influences, 
pleasures, and hospitality at all times. We were 
shown a well-stocked library, a comfortable con- 
versation-room, the tier of bath-rooms, the lava- 
tory, the well-furnished chambers, as well as the 
many other features incidental to the place. The 
chapel is a neat structure, and on all occasions of 
services is decorated beautifully with flowers, either 
the gifts of good women, who take a deep interest 
in this philanthropic work, or supplied from the 
green-house, built and cared for by experienced 
florists who have graduated from the Home. 

As an illustration of the principles upon which 
this institution is connected, we will mention an 
incident related to us. 

On one occasion the president of the Home, 
while breakfasting at a hotel, was joined by a 
former inmate who had broken his pledge, and 
was at the time flushed with liquor and showing 
evidence of a long night's debauch. The recreant 
went on to say, " The Franklin Home is a very 
good institution, Mr. Godwin, but they make one 
great mistake. There is a little too much religion 
about it." 

" My dear sir, if you had availed yourself of the 
religious influences about our Home, I should not 
have had the mortification of seeing you in the 
condition you are to-day," Mr. Godwin replied. 

And from this it may be seen that the funda- 
mental principle of this great charity is, that "by 
the grace of God alone, a man can stand," and 
that a man is expected "through this grace" to 
keep the pledge, and not to expect the pledge to 
keep him. 

As its president and acting superintendent, Mr. 
Godwin has fitly said : "The Franklin Home is 
not a man's institution, but God's. It was grown 
from the seeds that He planted, and has flourished 
under his fostering care. It has been protected 
beneath the shadow of his wing, and is assuming 
its present noble proportions altogether through 
the kindliness and encouragement of his smile." 

Why, then, should not the service of God be 
here, if anywhere, peculiarly appropriate and due, 
seeing that it is the very inspiration and life of 
the place. Only a small portion of the influence 
exerted by this great reformatory movement is due 
to the material comforts within its hospitable walls, 
though they are a necessary condition. The true 
secret of its success, as well as power for good, 
dwells within the men who manage it, — God- fear- 



ing. praying men, who unite with natural enthu- 
siasm for a good cause, with practical judgment 
and experience in an effectual daily routine, a 
firm faith, an inspiring hope, and that illimitable 
charity with which the Creator has endowed them. 
With them it is a life-work, and, although the 
institution is not by any means self-supporting, 
they, with the aid of the philanthropic friends of 
the Home, have thus far borne the burden of its 
deficiencies. It rests with the charitably-inclined 

at large, and friends of the movement, to help it 
onward by according it a generous support, which 
we feel will not be wanting in the future. Its 
present leading spirits, though thankful to every 
helping hand, are determined it shall ultimately 
succeed through their unremitting exertions in the 
cause. And in this spirit, actuated by a firm faith 
in the immutable power of Divine grace invoked 
in its behalf, success must attend so worthy and 
deserving an enterprise. 


By Rev. Charles Wheeler Denjson. 

We stood before the monument. The day 
Was cold and dreary. All the shivering trees, 
Stripped leafless to the blasts, bowed to the sun, 
With piteous nods, unvoiced, to plead for warmth. 

We # paused and gazed alone. The grim bronze horse 
Reared rampant to the sky, in stately poise ; i 

And the stern soldier, well of metal made, 
With lifted brow and martial cap upraised, 
In dress-parade salute, sat there erect, 
With majesty of mien, — emblem alike 
Of all our nation's power and gratitude. 

Close by the granite shaft of gray was parked 
A cannon, facing grimly to the front, 
Glistening with verdant sheen, — a grand 
Old trophy of the proud historic past. 

Within the cannon's mouth a sparrow perched, 
A modest, pretty creature, half-embowered 
In twigs and leaves that she had deftly borne 

To her retreat, to build herself a nest. 

How calm she looked on all the passers-by, 

From out her rook of bronze ! How sweet her chirp, 

In the great cannon's mouth ! 

The roar of war ; 
The maddening clash and furious lunge of arms; 
The fire and smoke of battle; the outcry 
Of men in deadly conflict ; the red tide 
Of life, poured out, in bubbling currents, on 
The field ; the dying groan ; the glare of death; 
The victor's shout; the roll of drums; the clang 
Of trumpets ; the fierce fluttering of flags ; 
The last sad rites of ghastly burials, 
Had passed away ; and in their place a bird 
Chirped from the cannon its sweet lay of peace ! 

In soft and tender tones of innocence 
It taught its lesson to the listening heart. 


Three pairs of dimpled arms, as white as snow, 

Held me in soft embrace ; 
Three little cheeks, like velvet peaches fair, 

Were placed against my face. 

Three tiny pairs of eyes, so clear, so deep, 

Looked into mine this ev'n ; 
Three pairs of lips kissed me a sweet " good-night," 

Three little forms from heaven. 

Ah ! 'tis well that " little ones" should love us ; 
It lights our faith when dim 

To know that once our pure Saviour bade them 
Bring " little ones" to Him. 

Said He not, " Of such is heaven," and blessed them, 

And held them to His breast! 
Is it not sweet to know that when they leave us 

'Tis there they go to rest ! 

And yet, ye tiny angels of my house, — 

Three hearts encased in mine ! — 
How 'twould be shattered if the Lord should say, 

" These angels are not thine !" 





To Our Readers. — We taay be pardoned, we trust, for 
taking the liberty of addressing our readers thus specially 
upon the occasion of our entrance on another volume, and 
upon a subject, too, which we feel is with them just at 
present " a current topic." " What new attraction is the 
Monthly going to offer us for the coming year?" is asked, 
no doubt, by many. " What improvement will be made that 
shall further enhance its value and add to the interest we 
already feel for this growing and popular magazine ?" we 
imagine has been the uppermost thought with at least some, 
if not all. 

With the present number, the first of the new volume, we 
propose to answer these queries, and in a manner that must 
convince the most skeptical of our readers, that our labors in 
their behalf in the past have at least been productive of some 
'* good fruits," and that the generous appreciation accorded 
us has stimulated to renewed exertions. While others have 
heralded in advance contemplated changes, alterations, or 
additions in fulsome and self-laudatory terms, we have pre- 
ferred, instead, an opposite course. It affords us greater 
pleasure to know and feel that we shall have it in our power 
to take our readers by surprise; for the effect is more im- 
pressive upon their minds if free from any preconceived 
idea of what is to come. Happier is he that receives what 
is unexpected than he who has pictured to his mind for days, 
and even months before, that which is to be presented to 
him. And in this we feel our readers will agree with us. 
At the same time we do not deem it essential to the interest 
of the magazine or its readers to announce as a fact the 
circumstance of its having a certain number of hundreds of 
thousands of subscribers as an evidence of its great success. 
This is but a small matter of personal concern to the average 
reader, and we do not believe it is accepted as a standard 
by which to determine the qualities or merits of any periodical. 
There are very many other points for consideration in a 
magazine outside the fact of its reputed great circulation. 
We, therefore, rest contented in the consciousness that the 
peculiar excellences and attractive qualities of the Monthly 
are rapidly popularizing it wherever it may circulate, and 
that the interest of the reader is fully answered by our assur- 
ance that it is progressing satisfactorily, that we are daily 
making new friends, and are content with the results of our 

The cheerful encouragement which we have met in all our 
relations with both reader and contributor has ever been 
appreciated, and, as heretofore, we shall endeavor to merit 
the same under any and all circumstances, by pursuing the 
line of policy we have marked out for the magazine and 
have conscientiously followed to the present time. We 
designed to make it a pure family magazine, one whose 
standard should be above reproach, and whose influence 
should ever prove energizing and refining. Our object in 
this respect being a worthy one, we feel warranted in asking 
the support of all cultured and refined readers. 

While our present number may not compare as favorably 
with some others as might be desired, we nevertheless feel 
that we have put forth a production in which we may be 
allowed to share a pardonable pride. There is still room for 
improvements, we admit; but these shall follow in course of 
time, as we are determined to reach as near perfection as it 
is possible. 

Dear reader, we have enlarged the magazine, and with 
the present number you will have sixteen pages more of 
reading matter than you have had heretofore; an amount 
that will average to the volume an additional number, and 
an increase of nearly two hundred pages to the bound 
volume. And not alone this : we have also secured the pen 
of one of America's most popular writers for our humorous 
department, entitled " Pot-pourri," and who tenders his first 
installment with the present number. His aim will be to 
make that department a spicy and attractive feature of the 
magazine, by serving up a constant supply of rich and nour- 
ishing anti-dyspeptic dishes for each number. He has given 
us a very choice dish for the present number, and we would 
advise the jolly, as well as the cynic, to read " Pot-pourri." 

With respect to the other departments, it is almost need- 
less to say that we shall design such improvements as shall 
materially add to their present interest and attractiveness. 
In point of illustrations, the improvement will be in keeping 
with the rest of the magazine, and the letter-press constitute 
the very best selections from the great score of talented and 
promising writers upon our list. 

This number will no doubt reach many of our readers on 
the eve of Christmas, a time when all will be in the enjoy- 
ment of good cheer and full of merry-making. We trust 
that it may come to them in the same spirit as came the 
messengers who brought " the glad tidings of great joy" 
from the East to Jerusalem ; that it may come to them 
also as the harbinger of the good that is in store for 
them, and as the friendly companion that shall solace the 
weary mind and burdensome heart during many leisure 
hours of the coming year. To those who shall greet its 
welcome pages later, and before the flickering rays of the 
old year shall have died away, we trust it may come as a 
happy omen for the future before them. To one and all, 
greeting! We extend you our hearty wishes for continued 
good health and prosperity, — a " Merry Christmas" and a 
" Happy New Year." 

No poet was ever more ardent in his praise of good old 

customs than Leigh Hunt, that most conservative of radicals. 

" Christmas comes ! he comes, he comes, 
Ushered with a ray of plums ; 
Hollies in the windows greet him ; 
Schools come driving home to meet him ; 
Every mouth delights to name him ; 
Wet and cold, and wind and dark, 
Make him but the warmer mark.'' 

He could even celebrate and speak kindly of their excesses; 



and in a strain of most pleasant banter he writes of Christmas 
as the 

" Glorious time of great Too Much 1 

Too much fire, and too much noise. 

Too much battlement of boys ; 

Too much eating, too much drinking. 

Too much ev'rything but thinking ; 

Solely bent to laugh and stuff, 

And trample upon base Enough." 

This is truly seasonable poetic license, — a running-over, 
as it were, of animal spirits, which was characteristic of the 
man, even under the most severe depression. For no one 
advocated more strongly than he did the restriction of enjoy- 
ment to what he here terms " base Enough," and the distri- 
bution of the surplus of the great Too Much among those 
who unfortunately are innocent of all familiarity with 

Whatever the season may be, we have sufficient faith in 
human nature to know that this will be done, and that over 
the breadth and length of the land practical messages of 
mercy will be sent, and desolate homes cheered, by the 
bounty of those who find the greatest pleasure that their 
wealth can afford is that of alleviating the wants of others. 

At present the weather promises to be of the kind termed 
'seasonable; and, as such will be desired by most of our 
readers, we may express a hope fur such a Yule-tide as that 
described by the veteran poet, Lord Houghton, — the Monck- 
ton Milnes of our youth, — in his charming '• Christmas 
Story" : 

" Long ere the dawn can claim the sky, 
The tempest rolls subservient by ; 
While bells on all sides ring and say, 
How Christ, the Child, was born to-day. 

Some butterflies of snow may float 
Down slowly, glistening in the mote, 
Hut crystal-leaved and fruited trees 
Scarce lose a jewel in the breeze. 

Frost diamonds twinkle on the grass. 

Transformed from pearly dew, 
And silver flowers encrust the glass 

Which gardens never knew." 

Light Literature for Boys. — I noticed, not long since, 
a cut in one of our illustrated weeklies that expressed a 
volume. A small ragged urchin stood before a large show- 
window, in which was displayed guns, pistols, and knives 
of every description. In his hand, behind his back, he held 
a copy of The Boys of MudvilU which purported to be a 
weekly paper for boys. On the first page of this paper was 
a cut of a hunter running a knife through an Indian, while 
several Indians were lying dead around him. The inference 
is too obvious to need comment. 

There is, perhaps, no subject receives so little attention, 
that deserves so much, as the light reading that boys are per- 
mitted to have. The perpetual hurry and bustle of life 
seems to have created a carelessness in the matter among 
parents and those in authority, that strikes one as almost 
criminal negligence. True, there are some who go to the 
other extreme, and prohibit all fictitious literature as having 
a pernicious influence. Whether this is advisable or not, it 
is beyond all question desirable that where they are allowed 
fiction it be judiciously selected. Tht number of those who 

really do so select their children's reading is small. It is 
too much trouble, or they have not time, or something pre- 
vents it. The influence is gradual, and its progress is not 
noted, but it is none the less impressing itself upon the mind 
and habits and life. Without considering the question as 
to whether the excessive use of- fiction weakens the faculties 
of the mind or not, it is our desire to present two or three of 
the effects that arise, from a social point of view. 

In reading of actions passing before it, the mind is unable 
to connect them with past time. A distinct image is before 
it as if the action was actually transpiring at the moment of 
reading. This image is of the same character, and affects 
the mind in the same manner, although in a less degree, as 
seeing the same incident. The characters of the persons 
our boys associate with in their reading have very much the 
same influence they would have in real life. The impression 
is not so great, as has been said, but an impression is made, 
and continued association strengthens it. 

It is a very simple matter to ascertain how the characters 
in our boys' fiction will affect them by glancing into our own 
nature. We cannot witness an act of gratitude without a 
kindred feeling of gratitude springing up in our own heart — 
not directed toward any object in particular, but a sort of 
indefinite inclination to perform some act of gratitude. A 
very slight opportunity will call forth an act of kindness, 
politeness, or courtesy, if we have just witnessed an act of 
the kind. In like manner, we cannot see a courageous action 
without a feeling of admiration for the author, and along 
with it a sense of boldness, and we feel impelled to coura- 
geous action. Again, there is a spirit of emulation within us 
that inclines us to imitate that which we consider to be 
admirable in others. 

We have here in a nutshell the effects of fiction to 
which we desire more particularly to call attention. These 
emotions implanted within us by an all-wise Creator are 
productive of great good if properly directed, but may be 
the origin of great evil if misdirected. Here appears the 
importance of selecting our boys' literature. Their judg- 
ments are not sufficiently mature to discriminate between 
that which is worthy of admiration and that which is not. 
The heroes of their fiction are apt to become their ideals, 
and their ambition is to imitate them. The trashy novels 
and periodical literature of the day present bold and reckless 
men as doing wicked and daring deeds The spirit of 
bravery overshadows the wickedness. Boys admire bravery, 
and soon they begin to admire actions of this character. We 
have known personally of two cases where boys, after reading 
literature of this class, have gathered together what money 
they could, and, taking old guns with them, have started off 
to hunt and trap, and fight the Indians. In each case, as 
their money became exhausted, and difficulties began to 
thicken around them, their courage rapidly disappeared, and 
they were glad to return to the routine of school-life. The 
impudent and depraved bootblacks and newsboys that figure 
in much of the boys' literature, with pertness and slang 
constantly on their lips, excite an admiration for what is 
mistaken for wit and smartness, and are demoralizing our 
boys and filling our homes with slang. Our boys are 
becoming pert, and an impudent answer slips readily from 
their tongue. Yet many a fond parent, whose boys have 



been associating with these fictitious heroes, cannot imagine 
why his boy is so changed. Many parents pay no attention 
to these companions of their boys, who guard them with 
jealous care from evil associates having flesh and blood. 

But there is a brighter side, also. We can no more 
associate with good companions without being benefited 
than we can mingle with bad without being harmed. Light 
literature, of the opposite character, judiciously selected by 
older heads, has an elevating influence for the reasons' before 
stated. Keep your boys in the society of those whom you 
would have them imitate. The story of a boy who by 
diligent, persevering endeavor to do right raises himself to 
be a useful and respected man is healthy reading. The 
story of a brave action in a good cause is beneficial, although 
simply reckless daring is demoralizing. Let your boys read 
of acts of politeness and deeds of kindness; let them read 
stories of gentle and manly boys, and the tendency of that 
which they read will be to make them polite and kind, 
gentle and manly. 

A good rule is to allow your boys to associate in their 
light literature only with such persons as you would be 
willing for them to associate with in real life, for the 
influence to a certain extent is exactly the same. The 
fictitious characters are realities to the boys' mind. His 
heart will swell with benevolence when'they are benevolent; 
a feeling of boldness will take possession of him when they 
are brave ; his life will be purified or contaminated as they 
are pure or impure. M. M. 

The Philosophy of Fashion. — Fashion is intrinsically 
imitative. Imitation may result from two widely-divergent 
motives : it may be prompted by reverence for one imitated, 
or it may be prompted by the desire to assert equality with 
him. Between the imitations prompted by these unlike 
motives no clear distinction can be drawn ; and hence there 
results the possibility of a transition from those reverential 
imitations going along with much subordination, to those 
competitive imitations characterizing a state of comparative 
independence. Setting out with this idea as our clue, let us 
observe how the reverential imitations are initiated, and 
how there begins the transition from them to the competitive 
imitations. Given a society characterized by servile sub- 
mission, and in what cases will a superior be propitiated by 
the imitations of an inferior ? In respect of what traits will 
assumption of equality with him be complimentary ? Only 
in respect to his defects. From the usages of those tyranni- 
cally-ceremonious savages, the Fijians, may be given an 
instance well illustrating the motive and the result. A chief 
was one day going over a mountain-path, followed by a long 
string of his people, when he happened to stumble and fall ; 
all the rest of the people immediately'did the same, except 
one man, who was instantly set upon by the rest, to know 
whether he considered himself better than his chief. 

Even more Startling is a kindred practice in Africa, among 
the people of Darfur. " If the sultan, being on horseback, 
happens to fall off, all his followers must fall off likewise ; 
and should any one omit this formality, however great he 
may be, he is laid down and beaten." 

Such examples of endeavors to please a ruler by avoiding 
any appearance of superiority to him seem less incredible 

than they would else seem, on finding that among European 
peoples there have occurred, if not like examples, still 
analogous examples. In 1461 Duke Philip of Burgundy, 
having had his hair cut during an illness, " issued an edict 
that all the nobles of his states should be shorn also. More 
than five hundred persons . . . sacrificed their hair.*' From 
this instance, in which the ruler insisted on having his 
defect imitated by the ruled against their wills (for many 
disobeyed), we may pass to a later instance in which a 
kindred imitation was voluntary. In France, in 1665, after 
the operation on Louis XIV., the royal infirmity became the 
fashion among the courtiers. 

" Some who had previously taken care to conceal it were 
now not ashamed to let it be known. There were even 
courtiers who chose to be operated on in Versailles, because 
the king was then informed of all the circumstances 'of 
the malady. ... I have seen more than thirty wishing to 
be operated on, and whose folly was so great that they were 
annoyed when told that there was no occasion to do so.*' 

And now, if with cases like these we join cases in which 
a modification of dress which a king adopts to hide a defect 
(such as a deep neckcloth where a scrofulous neck has to be 
concealed) is imitated by courtiers, and spreads downward, 
we see how, from that desire to propitiate which prompts 
the pretense of having a like defect, there may result fashion 
in dress, and how, from approval of imitations of this kind, 
may insensibly come tolerance of other imitations. 

Not that such a cause would produce such an effect by 
itself. There is a co- operating cause which takes advantage 
of the openings thus made. Competitive imitation, ever 
going as far as authority allows, turns to its own advantage 
every opportunity which reverential imitation makes. 

This competitive imitation begins quite as early as the 
reverential. Members of savage tribes are not infrequently 
led by the desire for applause into expenditure relatively 
more lavish than are the civilized. There are barbarous 
peoples among whom the expected hospitalities on the occa- 
sion of a daughter's marriage are so costly as to excuse 
female infanticide on the ground that the ruinous expense 
which rearing the daughter would eventually entail is thus 
avoided. Thomson and Angas unite in describing the ex- 
travagance into which the New Zealand chiefs are impelled 
by fashion, in giving great feasts, as often causing famines, — 
feasts for which chiefs begin to provide a year before, — each 
being expected to outdo his neighbors in prodigality. And 
the motive thus coming into play early in social evolution, 
and making equals vie with one another in display, simi- 
larly all along prompts the lower to vie, so far as they are 
allowed, with the higher. Everywhere, and always, the 
tendency of the inferior to assert himself has been in antag- 
onism with the restraints imposed on him ; and a prevalent 
way of asserting himself has been to adopt costumes and 
appliances and customs like those of his superior. Habitu- 
ally there have been a few of subordinate rank who for one 
reason or another have been allowed to encroach by imita- 
ting the ranks above, and habitually the tendency has been 
to multiply the precedents for imitation, and so to establish 
for wider classes the freedom to live and .dress in ways like 
those of the narrower classes. 

Especially has this happened as fast as rank and wealth 



have ceased to be coincident, as fast, that is, as industrialism 
has produced men rich enough to compete in style of living 
with those above them in rank. Partly from the greater 
means, and partly from the consequent greater power, 
acquired by the upper grades of producers and distributors, 
and partly from the increasing importance of the financial 
aid they can give to the governing-classes in public and ■ 

private affairs, there has been an ever-decreasing resistance 
to the adoption by them of usages originally forbidden to 
all but the high-born. The restraints in earlier times enacted 
and re enacted by sumptuary laws have been gradually re- 
laxed, until the imitation of superiors by inferiors, spreading 
continually downward, has ceased to be checked by anything 
more than sarcasm and ridicule. 


Lunch-parties. — There is a fascination to married women 
about those noonday gatherings which is stronger than that 
of kettle-drums or wining-parties. We suspect the chief 
reason of this lies in the fact that no woman likes to 
acknowledge that her husband is not as willing to escort her 
hither and thither as before marriage, and so these parties, 
coming at an hour when husbands are not expected, have a 
decided advantage. Kettle-drums, where more complaisant 
or younger men call in at the last of the affair, are particu- 
larly delightful to the newly-married or the fianch. A 
lunch party, too, admits of so much or so little. Some of 
the most delightful we have attended were given where no 
servant was in attendance, and the lunch consisted of but 
one course ; but the hostess knew so well how to invite and 
how to draw out the special talent of certain guests that the 
afternoon slipped by and our lunch-party almost merged 
into an afternoon tea. Who to have is more important than 
what to have. Given the right people, the table, if prettily 
laid, and furnished with wholesome, well-prepared food, is 
sure to please. An English lady, whose daughters enter- 
tained with remarkable tact, told us that she had taught them 
as young girls to prepare a programme as carefully for a 
lunch-party as for an amateur concert. " The difference 
is," she added, " your programme is not announced, and cnly 
resorted to if needed." At her house, if you were musical, 
you heard music which, if by an amateur, was sure to be 
thoroughly mastered, and rendered in such a manner that 
you did not listen tremblingly lest a break-down should 
occur, nor keep thinking what complimentary word you 
would say that was not too palpably " stretched." If you- 
enjoyed conversation, and had no liking for the silence our 
hostess expected during every musical performance, you were 
invited to meet bright talkers, women who had read, and knew 
how to tell a story, and (most delightfully for you) how to 
make others talk. " It takes, at least, a week to plan a good 
lunch-party, five or six days to make up your list, then one 
to get the lunch ready." 

If you are the only lady in your home, you should either 
persuade a friend to share your duties as hostess, or else 
invite a limited number, such as six or eight. But you must 
remember that it is far more difficult to entertain a few than 
a number ; have suggestive books and, if possible, one or 
two specimens of new kinds of work scattered about. If 
you live away from the large cities, do not despair ; tucked 
away in odd corners, in the garrets and closets of your 
farm neighbors, are strange old bits of furniture, which they 
are pleased to lend, if not sell, and which will be as provo- 

cative of conversation in your parlor as such things were in 
the New England cabin. So many people can read well 
nowadays that you can use any declamatory talent your 
friends possess. It is certainly very difficult to stand forth 
and recite as if before an audience ; but with a little tact 
you can lead up to a certain poem or article you have ready, 
and read it seated among your friends ; another plan is to 
have the piano turned facing the company, and, after a little 
music, let the one who is to recite stand behind its friendly 
breadth ; the musician at her side gives her confidence. 
Anagrams and capping verses are another way of enter- 
taining if your guests are quick-witted ; but if not, beware 
of such. We have an uneasy feeling that here and there 
among our readers are some who will try a lunch-party on 
our recommendation and fail — as we have ourselves — 
because they have not the very first requisite, congenial 
friends. To such, the unfortunates who are cut off from 
their more natural surroundings, we would say : make your 
home lovely, decorate the table every meal if you can, and 
find your society in books and magazines. 

Mending. — I am going to maintain that darning, mending, 
and repairing are essentially ladylike employments. In a 
most literal sense I mean this, for where do we find servants 
nowadays who can mend neatly ? If they could, they would 
despise it, and they would continue to do so until ladies 
again mend as beautifully as our grandmothers did. Then 
perhaps the art (and it is an art) will percolate downward, 
like manners (or the want of them) do to-day. First of all, 
mending is better done by fingers that belong to a cultivated 
brain, because more than other kinds of needlework it requires 
thought and adaptation. No two things in mending are ever 
alike, no two darns ever present the same aspect, no article 
of clothing or household linen ever wears to order ; therefore, 
that is one of the reasons why the working- classes are not 
natty menders, as their time at school is limited, and seaming 
and hemming are still seaming and hemming, on whatever 
quality of material they practice them, and the constant 
practice makes perfect. But mending well is the result of 
experience, and, although it gives more trouble to teach 
than any other form of needlework, yet if mothers would 
begin to teach their little children to mend as soon as they 
begin to teach them to hem, they would find that a little 
daily instruction would in a few years make them good 
menders of stockings, under-linen, and house-linen. 

To very little children mending may be made amusing. 
I taught my children to darn on canvas with colored wools, 



and this plan has now becofne the custom in many schools. 
Instead of working and worrying and doing infinite harm to 
little tender unformed brains under seven years of age by 
teaching them " book-learning," it would do both little boys 
and girls lasting good to spend the same time in teaching 
them to sew, knit, and darn. There is quite as great a 
discipline in the employment, for the children must be 
attentive, painstaking, and industrious. Their workboxes 
must also be tidy, their hands scrupulously clean, and the 
tone and companionship of a cultivated and gentle mother or 
governess while the lesson is going on is an education in 
itself. Young children, both boys and girls, ought to have 
two sewing-lessons a day. In the morning let them knit, 
then crochet, then do plain sewing, and in the afternoon let 
them learn to mend. The canvas on which they should 
learn to darn ought to be moderate squares of plain canvas. 
Teach them to cut them straight by a thread, and then to 
hem them all round with colored silk. Overcasting the 
edges is not sufficient. Then with different-colored single 
Berlin wool teach them to thread their own needles, and 
then to darn by taking up one thread and leaving the next, 
to make the rows even; by teaching them to make the 1st, 
3d, 5th, 7th, and all the uneven rows alike, and the 2d, 4th, 
6th, 8th, and all the even rows the same. This is done by 
beginning either above or below the last stitch in the 1st 
row, and stopping short of one stitch at the other end, or 
going one stitch beyond, just as you may have begun from 
the bottom, and then they should count each row before 
they begin another. Do not let the darns exceed eight to 
ten stitches, and, when they get on a little, teach them to 
cross or darn with another colored thread, and to choose a 
good contrast. Show them that, if they have done the first 
part of the darn properly, it is all ready for them to cross by 
taking up the piece of wool that lies over the missed stitch. 
Teach them to leave loops, and to make them exactly even, 
which they must learn to find out by putting the needle 
through all the loops when the darn is finished, and to 
compare notes which child can show the most even loops. 

Do not read to young children while they are learning to 
sew — it only worries both mother and children. Half an 
hour or more soon passes, and many lessons are contained in 
the carrying out of the plan I have sketched ; and let each 
learn to put needles, wool, etc., away neatly, and to put 
their workboxes away before a story is read or told. Let 
the children have in their boxes a memorandum-book with 
their names in it, and let them bring it to have marks 
entered, and at the end of a month a prize should be given 
to each painstaking child. II. B. 

Ancient Egypt. — It was not less celebrated for the 
quality of its manufactures than the extent of its agricultural 
resources. A piece of linen, has been found at Memphis 
containing 540 picks to the inch, and it is recorded that one 
of the Pharaohs sent to the Lydian King Croesus a corslet 
made of linen and wrought with gold, each fine thread of 
which was composed of 360 smaller threads twisted together ! 
The ancient Egyptians wove a fabric called the "linen of 
justice," or "justification;" so beautiful and valuable was it, 
that it was esteemed the most acceptable offering to the 
" Restorer of Life." Not many, but a few handlooms, can 

still be seen at work in the Eastern bazaars of Cairo, the 
cloth woven in which rivals in texture, colors, and design 
the finest glass screens of Munich. 

The Lemon. — As a writer in the London Lancet remarks, 
few people know the value of lemon-juice. A piece of lemon 
bound upon a corn will cure it in a few days; it should be 
renewed night and morning. A free use of lemon-juice 
and sugar will always relieve a cough. Most people feel 
poorly in the spring, but if they would eat a lemon before 
breakfast every day for a week — with or without sugar, as 
they like — they would find it better than any medicine. 
Lemon-juice used according to this recipe will sometimes 
cure consumption : Put a dozen lemons into cold water and 
slowly bring to a boil ; boil slowly until the lemons are soft, 
then squeeze until all the juice is extracted ; add sugar to 
your taste and drink. In this way use one dozen lemons a 
day. If they cause pain, or loosen the bowels too much, 
lessen the quantity, and use only five or six a day until you 
are better, and then begin again with a dozen a day. After 
using five or six dozen, the patient will begin to gain flesh 
and enjoy food. Hold on to the lemons, and still use them 
very freely for several weeks more. Another use for lemons 
is for a refreshing drink in summer, or in sickness at any 
time. Prepare as directed above, and add water and sugar. 
But in order to have this kept well, after boiling the lemons, 
squeeze and strain carefully ; then to every half-pint of juice 
add one pound of loaf or crushed sugar, boil and stir a few 
minutes more until the sugar is dissolved, skim carefully, 
and bottle. You will get more juice from the lemons by 
boiling them, and the preparation keeps better. 

Artificial flower manufacture is a craft that has increased 
considerably of late years in Paris. In 1847 there were only 
six hundred and twenty-two manufacturers throughout Paris, 
and now there are many more than three thousand manu- 
facturers! So the industry has flourished apace in little 
more than thirty years. It will have been remarked that 
flower-making and feather-making are generally carried on 
side by side, and that very often the proprietor of a flower- 
manufactory contrives at the same time to do a little business 
in feathers. So universally is this recognized in France, that 
when any statements are made with regard to one branch 
the other branch is instantly mentioned as if it belonged to 
the question. For instance, in a calculation we came across 
the other day of the value of various classes of French 
products, we found the two things put together, and the 
total value of the annual produce of flowers and feathers 
computed at forty million francs, a foot-note stating that the 
flowers represented twenty-five million francs, while the 
feathers were only responsible for fifteen millions. 

Two preservative wrapping-papers have been recently 
brought out, — one designed for fruits, and one for furs, cloth, 
etc. The first is made by dipping a soft tissue-paper in a 
bath of salicylic acid and hanging it in the air to dry. The 
bath should be made from a strong alcoholic solution of 
salicylic acid, diluted with as much water as it will bear 
without precipitation.* The apples, oranges, or other fruits 
may be wrapped in the paper before packing, and when tiut 



fruit reaches its market the paper can be removed and used 
again. A manilla wrapping-paper is arranged .for resisting 
moths and mildew by dipping it in a prepared bath and 
drying over hot rollers. This bath is made by mixing 70 
parts of the oil removed by the distillation of coal-tar 
(naphtha), 5 parts pf crude carbolic acid containing at least 
50 per cent, of phenola, 20 parts of thin coal-tar at 160 deg. 
Fahr., and 5 parts of refined petroleum. 

Hasty Dinners. — Not the least among the worries of 
some young housekeepers is that of receiving a note at mid- 
day to the effect that " So-and-so is coming home to dinner 
with me; have all nice, but don't make any extra fuss." 
This happens frequently in places where shops, butchers, 
etc., are inaccessible, and maybe when the larder has 
reached its lowest ebb. The last joint has been roasted for 
the early dinner, and its remains, with those of a cold 
chicken, have been destined for the " high tea" or supper. 
A few hints as to how a small hasty dinner can be arranged 
may be useful to some who cannot afford to keep an expe- 
rienced cook, and yet like to preside over more recherchi 
and varied fare than can he obtained at the hands of the 
general servants. In the first place, much time may be 
saved, and bread also, by daily putting aside trimmings of 
toasts and crusts, which must be browned and crisped in the 
oven, crushed with the rolling-pin, and kept in a tin box or 
a bottle. These give a much better appearance than fresh 
crumbs, and are always ready when haste is required for 
fish, cutlets, etc. It is well, also, occasionally to make some 
browning for giving an agreeable appearance to soups and 
sauces, as frequently when the untidy habit of burning sugar 
in a spoon is resorted to the result is most unpleasant. Take 
four tablespoonfuls of brown sugar, stir in an iron saucepan 
over the fire until nearly black ; then add boiling water. 
Let it cool, and bottle for use. By chopping and well boil- 
ing down all bones and meat-trimmings, the stock-pot should 
always be able to furnish a foundation from which various 
soups may be made ; but, failing this, if fresh or dried vege- 
tables, or Italian paste, are first boiled, then added to boiling 
water in which Liebig's extract of beef has been dissolved, 
allowing a small teaspoonful to each half pint, a clear, light, 
and refreshing soup is speedily prepared. 

It is probable that fish can only be obtained on certain 
days, and the hasty dinner will assuredly be required on one 
of the intervening ones. Therefore, it is well to be provided 
with tins of salmon and lobster, from which several palatable 
dishes may be prepared. For instance, pour away the liquid, 
which often has a metallic taste, and turn out the fish into 
nicely-prepared melted butler made with milk. Season with 
cayenne, mace, and a few drops of anchovy. Let it become 
thoroughly hot, but do not let it boil. Serve in china scallop- 
shell, or on a flat dish; sprinkle well with prepared bread- 
crumbs, and garnish with parsley. Or the fish may be made 
hot in water, and dressed a la Tar/are, by pouring over it 
sauce made by mixing half a teaspoonful of mustard with 
oil and the yelks of two eggs; add a little milk or cream, 
and thicken carefully over the fire ; add a few drops of 
plain or flavored vinegar, such as Chili, tarragon, etc. 
Make all hot- in the oven, and serve. Lobster is better 
made into cutlets by mixing with breadcrumbs, butter, 1 

and egg ; roll into shapes, egg and breadcrumb, and fry in 
boiling lard. Most men who have luncheon prefer several 
small dainty dishes to a plain joint; and, with a little 
trouble and tact, these are not difficult. A small mincing- 
machine is a great assistance, as, by its aid, apparently 
insignificant remnants may be used, and, with the addition 
perhaps of cooked rice or cold potatoes, delicious little ris- 
soles may be speedily turned out. Slices of meat may be 
rolled and tied with cotton, each sprinkled inside and out 
with chopped parsley and lemon-peel; a sauce piquante, 
made by boiling in half a wine-glass of vinegar chopped 
herbs and a little whole -spice; thicken with flour, and 
pour on sufficient stock or gravy; add browning; lay the 
rolled meat in a pie-dish, and pour the sauce over ; heat in 
the oven, and serve on a flat dish with pyramid of browned 
mashed potatoes or plainly cooked tomatoes. The remains 
of cold fowl will make a small dish of curry, or may be 
served with white sauce and mushroom*, or made hot in 
brown gravy, and plentifully garnished with fresh water- 
cress, which is a delicious accompaniment, especially so to 
some tastes, if the cress be first sprinkled with a few drops 
of oil and tarragon or elder-flower vinegar. It must be 
remembered that the true art of useful cooking is not so 
much the carrying out of certain recipes as the tact of using 
to advantage the ingredients within reach, and producing 
variety by delicate flavorings, etc., which cannot always be 
trusted to a servant. A vegetable, according to the season, 
may be served with one of the dishes ; or asparagus, green 
artichokes, stewed celery, etc., are better served between or 
after, alone, on toast with melted butter. A sweet omelette, 
apple, orange, x>r any fritters of fresh or preserved fruits may 
follow, and a small dish of maccaroni, made as follows, is a 
welcome addition. Drop the maccaroni into boiling water, 
and cook until quite tender. Make a sauce of milk thick- 
ened with flour and butter, to which add a small spoonful of 
made mustard, cayenne, and salt to taste. Let the macca- 
roni remain in this a short time, turn out on a buttered dish, 
and cover with grated cheese and prepared breadcrumbs ; 
brown in oven or before the fire. 

A prettily arranged salad is an acquisition, also plain biscuits 
and butter. A little' care must be bestowed upon the table, 
that the salt-cellars and flower-glasses be freshly arranged, 
and the cloth spotless. A tastefully-laid table has more to do 
with the enjoyment of a repast than many are aware of. One 
or two dishes of fresh or dried fruits, and a pretty biscuit-box 
placed among low glasses of flowers, leaves, or grasses, help 
to furnish the table, and where the maid is neat and quick it 
is better to have the different dishes which compose the 
dinner handed round. It is quite practicable to prepare a 
most enjoyable little hasty dinner in an afternoon, and I have 
seen it often done with more favorable results than when 
more time and resources have been available; and, notwith- 
standing all that has been said and written about the prover- 
bial thoughtlessness and exactions of our *' lords and masters" 
in all that concerns household management, I am sure there 
are few who do not appreciate the privilege of being able to 
ask a friend home, with the certainty of finding more dainty 
fare than cold meat, or plain chop and steak, and it is well 
worth a little time and trouble to experiment upon a few dishes 
for a hasty dinner and gain experience therein. M. M. 




Pierce' 8 Colonial Lists. Civil % Military, and Profes- 
sional Lists of Plymouth and Rhode Island Colonies, 
comprising Colonial, County, and Town Officers, Clergy- 
men, Physicians, and Lawyers. With Extracts from 
Colonial Laws defining their duties. 162 1- 1 700. By 
Ebenezer W. Pierce, of Freetown, Mass,, Member 
of various Historical and Genealogical Societies. 1 88 1. 
Boston : A. Williams 6* Co. 

General Pierce's new historical and statistical work com- 
prises the result of most laborious research into the early 
records of two of the New England colonies. It is doubtful 
whether any other man could have brought to the task so 
much previous knowledge of the general history of the 
colonies, united to such familiarity with local events and 
the persons connected therewith. The work furnishes, as 
stated in the preface, " a book of ready reference wherein 
the names of colonial, county, and town officers and profes- 
sional men are presented concisely," and so tabulated as to 
appear " in a form the most convenient to the reader.'' 

The names of the more prominent individuals in civil 
and military life in Plymouth Colony and the Rhode Island 
and Providence Plantations have been " familiar as house- 
hold words" to every student of history ; but this book 
brings out from their obscure hiding-places in musty records 
the rank <md file, as it were, of the ancient colonies, — the 
selectmen, the representatives, the constables, the officers 
of the local militia, the highway surveyors, the jurymen, the 
inn-keepers, collectors, professional men, etc., — and makes 
them known to many who will recognize their ancestors in 
places of trust if not of highest honor. 

Not the least valuable and interesting part of the work is 
that devoted to the extracts from the colonial laws. These 
relate in part to the duties of civil officers, and in part, and 
more particularly, to the military affairs which formed so 
large a part of the legislation and were so essential to the 
safety of the colonies. 

The book is very compact, and comprises in its compara- 
tively small number of pages a large and well-arranged 
collection of valuable information not elsewhere to be found 
in print. 

Ego. A Novel. By Harry W. French. Author of 
" Germs of Genius" " Castle Foam" etc. Boston : Lee 
<5r* Shepard. 

The title of this novel is, to say the least, quite odd, 
yet the writer nevertheless deigns to enlighten his readers 
through the preface as to the significance of the term and its 
application to the gist of his story. The scene is laid in the 
Shenandoah Valley, and is carried in occasional instances to 
other sections. The plot is deftly arranged, and the inci- 
dents are happily narrated. In every respect we find it a 
most charming and interesting story, and one in the reading 
of which the reader cannot fail to fully realize an appre- 
ciable arid entertaining enjoyment. 

The Saddest of all is Loving. By Mrs. Louise Mont- 
gomery Sale, Author of "Kenneth Raymond?' etc. New 
York : The Authors' Publishing Co. 
As its title implies, this is the " old, old story" in a nice 
new dress, with beautiful colors and delicate tints caught 
from the hillsides and flower-fields of the South, — a genuine 
love-story of Southern society. The plot is well constructed, 
the narrative is always interesting, and altogether it is a 
delightfully fresh and attractive work. 

Coleridge, Shelley, Goethe. Biographical ^Esthetic 
Studies. By George H. Calvert. Boston; Lee dr» 

A work of careful preparation, and wherein the author 
combines criticism with biography. The subjects are too 
well known in the history of the world's literature to 
require any additional information as to who they were, 
yet any newly-developed facts touching their life-histories 
and literary labors will ever possess sufficient interest to 
lovers of our modern classics. The author has thoroughly 
studied their general characteristics, and his criticisms are 
not alone generous and fulsome, but candid and deserving. 
The work should, as no doubt it will, find a place in every 
well-regulated library. 

The Trials of Raissa. A Russian Love- Story. By 
Henry Greville. Translated by Mary Neal Sher- 
wood. Philadelphia : T B. Peterson <Sr» Bros. 
" The Trials of Raissa" is indeed a story full of fascina- 
tion and power, the more felicitous and interesting because 
out of the common track. Henry Greville has written many 
love-stories, but none more absorbing, natural, and effective 
than this. The scene is laid in Russia, where Henry Gre- 
ville is most at home, and the action takes place in St. 
Petersburg, the country, and Siberia. The descriptions are 
admirable, and the reader is given a number of exceedingly 
picturesque pen-sketches of winter and winter scenery in the 
dominions of the Czar. The plot is well conceived and 
capitally developed. A young girl of the utmost purity and 
innocence, Raissa Porof, the daughter of a retired army 
surgeon, is the heroine, and she is abducted in the street in 
St. Petersburg by three officers of the Imperial Guard. Her 
mother, an invalid, dies from the shock, and Raissa and her 
father seek in vain for justice at the hands of the police 
authorities. The culprits belong to the nobility, and are 
shielded. The matter is at last brought to the ears of the 
Czar, who exiles the offenders to Siberia, after having first 
forced one of them, Count Valerien Gretsky, to wed Raissa. 
He also confiscates the estates of the culprits for the benefit 
of the young girl. Gretsky leaves his wife, uttering expres- 
sions of disgust and hatred. Raissa, however, in the brief 
space occupied by the marriage ceremony, has learned to 
love him, and thereafter she devotes herself to the task of 
winning his affection. She manages his estates in the most 



prudent manner, sending hira the revenues, and clears his 
sister from the suspicion of having poisoned her husband, 
besides rescuing her from the hands of a mob of infuriated 
serfs. All these actions fail to touch the angry exile. 
Finally, the typhoid fever breaks out in Siberia, and the 
three officers are stricken with the malady. Raissa obtains 
their pardon of the Czar, and goes to nurse them. Raissa is 
one of Henry Greville's best-drawn characters, and no one 
can fail to be touched by her sorrows, her trials, and her 
loftiness of purpose. Indeed, as a picture of pure and 
upright womanhood, Raissa stands unrivaled. Count Vale- 
rien, Sabakine, and Resof are also vividly sketched, while 
the coquettish Princess Adine and the old servant Fadei are 
notably felicitous creations. The denouement is all that the 
reader could well desire. 

The Decorative Art Society, of Chicago, held its reception 
on November loth, nth, and 12th. The display of art-work 
in all departments was large, and the rooms were crowded 
with many interested visitors. Panels in oil were shown by 
Mrs. Porter, Mrs. Higginson, and Mrs. Beers, and Mrs. 
Harrison contributed some water-colors. There were some 
pictures and plaques by Prof. Baumgrass and his pupils. Mrs. 
Bond's classes in china-painting and underglaze exhibited 
artistic work. A set of Nuna plates has a square outlined 
in gold upon each plate, and sprays of flowers. Some speci- 
mens of underglaze work, by Mrs. Jenkins, attracted much 
attention. Miss Mary Koupal, formerly of Chicago, who is 
now studying in New York, has a painting in oil, " Among 
the Daisies," showing a little country girl standing in a field 
of daisies. It called forth much favorable comment. Much 
interest was shown in the embroidery department, which 
was in charge of Mrs. Coome. All the work exhibited was 
designed at the rooms. Among the most attractive pieces 
was a lambrequin of antique blue silk serge embroidered 
with a spray of wild roses and trimmed with a band of 
plush of a darker shade of blue. Upon a screen of wine- 
colored satin is worked a jackdaw with a tail of peacock- 
feathers, strutting proudly in her borrowed plumes. A bed- 
spread, in the old German style, has poppies embroidered in 
outline in red and black, with the motto in black : 

" Schlummert bis dcr Tag erwahlt, 
Ohne furcht, dcr Vattr wacht." 

A beautiful cover for an upright piano is of wine-colored 
silk serge ; one end has a plush corner from which spring 
yellow buttercups, and on the other end is a graceful spray 
of yellow laburnum. Many orders for the holidays have 
been received in this department, and all the workers will 
be kept busy until after Christmas. 

The Ladies' Social Art Club, of Syracuse, N. Y., has at 
present a list of forty active members, fifteen associate mem- 
bers, and five honorary members. Its meetings are held 
weekly, and its work lies in the study of art and the artists 
of the various countries from the earliest period, and art 
lectures are given before the club during the winter. 

Miss Plumb is at the head of the department in painting 
in the Syracuse Decorative Art Society. This is the oldest 
art club of Syracuse, the direct outgrowth of the Fine Art 

College of Syracuse University, of which Prof. George F. 
Comfort is the dean. The dean of the College of Fine Arts, 
Prof. Comfort, has arranged for a series of soirees to be 
given by the Faculty and students of the musical department 
of the college. 

The Philadelphia Society of Artists closed its exhibition 
on the 6th ult., having met with an unprecedented success, 
both in attendance and sales. The collection of works upon 
exhibition was pronounced to have been the best yet seen on 
any previous occasion. 

A woman's art school is being established in Cincinnati, 
on the model of the South Kensington schools, and under 
the tuition of Mr. Eugene Nice. J. H. Twachtmann is 
teacher of oil painting, and Henry Muhrman of water-color. 

The Art Club of Cleveland, Ohio, enters upon its fifth year 
under the most encouraging auspices. It now includes 
eighty members. It has received a most valuable addition 
in the person of Mr. F. Aborn, long a teacher of drawing 
and perspective in the public schools. The classes in ele- 
mentary and mechanical drawing and sketching are under 
his direction. 

The Cincinnati Pottery Club made an exhibition of one 
hundred and seventy-two vases, plaques, and faience. Mrs. 
Walter Field, Miss McLaughlin, Mrs. Leonard, and Miss 
Holabird were among the largest contributors to the exhibit. 

The Port-Folio Club, of Syracuse, N. Y., has, resumed 
work for the coming winter months. 

The Cincinnati Art Museum is meeting with excellent 
success. The subscriptions to the fund now amount to 
£313,000. The amount necessary to secure Mr. West's 
subscription of £150,000 was raised in less than thirty days 
after the subscription was opened. Four citizens subscribed 
£10,000 each, and sixty-three were for £1000 each. 

Art Needlework in England. — Rather an innovation 
has recently been made in the use of dressed calfskin, Russia 
and Morocco leather, as a groundwork for embroidery. 
Couched or laid work is perhaps the most suitable for this 
material, whether in broad masses of silk, or in mere outlin- 
ing of gold. The difficulty is that as the leather shows every 
prick of the needle, it is necessary that the worker should 
be extremely careful to make no false stitches, or rather 
attempts at stitches. For this reason, embroidery on any 
kind of leather is best done in the hand, as it is not always 
easy in frame-work to bring up the needle from beneath 
exactly in the right place without any false starts. This 
difficulty is, however, quickly got over by a tolerably intelli- 
gent worker who is ready to adapt herself to varied circum- 
stances. Handsome bindings for books, photograph-albums, 
scrap-albums, work-baskets, note-cases, cigar-cases, and in- 
numerable other small knicknacks may be made in this 
way, and be valuable as presents where the work itself is 
done by the giver. The number of people who take up 
decorative needlework as a pastime is daily increasing, hut 



it is to be regretted that they rather fritter away their time 
in small unimportant pieces of. work which have no cumula- 
tive effect when finished than on the serious decoration of a 
room, for instance, on one well-matured plan. In olden 
days, our ancestors thought nothing of undertaking to work 
embroideries for the decoration of their bedrooms, even 
when the ponderous curtains and valances of the ancient 
four-poster had to be made. In the royal palaces are at 
least two bedrooms — those of the Princess Beatrice and 
Prince Leopold — which are furnished throughout with em- 
broidery on creamy-white linen of even, though coarse, 
texture, and very beautiful they both are. One is entirely 
worked in two shades of blue crewel, in a design borrowed 
from Chinese ideas; the other is bordered with honeysuckles, 
and with powderings of the same flowers over the centre. 
Bed and window hangings, coverlets, sofas, chairs, and otto- 
mans are all embroidered to match. The effect, as we have 
said, is singularly good, and as the work will clean as long 
as a piece of it hangs together, it would fully repay the labor 
of any lady who would undertake a similar decoration for 
her own boudoir or bedroom. The new sun-blinds, made 
of Tusser silk, or other soft material, and gathered up from 
the bottom in place of rolling up over a pole, may be prettily 
ornamented by a valance of embroidery at the lower end, 
below the commencement of the gathered portion, or even 
the ordinary straight blinds may be decorated with outline 
embroidery, either in the form of powderings, or of diagonal 
or longitudinal stripes. Every day is showing fresh objects 
to which this kind of decoration may be effectively applied. 
Its drawback, no doubt, is in the first instance its expense, 
for careful hand-work of any kind can never be cheap ; but 
it has the advantage of being everlasting, and it would not 
be costly if ladies would do it for themselves, as their grand- 
mothers did. A new idea has lately been brought out by 
the Royal School of Art Needlework in the application of 
hand-embroidery to woven fabrics. The idea itself can 
scarcely be said to be new, for it has often been applied 

before in small masses and in outlining or enriching with 
gold thread materials such as damask. The new tapestries 
first brought out by the school are, however, different from 
anything heretofore attempted. A design is woven in silk 
and wool on a curtain similar to the tapestries which have 
lately become such favorites. The outline of the design is 
in some neutral tint, and the pattern is thrown up in dead 
gold or bronze chiefly. On this flat-woven surface a few 
bold stitches are worked in white crewel or filoselle, as 
occasion demands, and the effect is to produce an extremely 
handsome and rich -looking curtain, with much less than 
half the ordinary expenditure of time or material. They 
are, of course, therefore much cheaper than wholly embroid- 
ered curtains of the same design could possibly be, and they 
are quite as effective, if not more so. One design of 
greenish-white fox-gloves, with dado, and border all round, 
is very beautiful. The idea might well be adapted to furni- 
ture-coverings, but it is necessary to have designs specially 
made for this purpose, as the ordinary woven fabrics are 
much too elaborate, and too much imitation of embroidery, 
as it is, to work up well. The reproduction of old Indian 
designs from the actual ancient blocks on Tusser silk, and 
embroidered with the new Tusser silks which have lately 
become famous, since they were exhibited at the Paris Exhi- 
bition, marks a new phase again in decorative needlework. 
These silks, which are spun from the wild or uncultivated 
cocoon, are about half the price of the cultivated silk of 
China or Italy. Certain colors they take with peculiar rich- 
ness, but not all. Quite sufficient, however, can be done in 
dyeing them to produce very beautiful embroideries. The 
specimens which are now exhibited in the Indian Museum 
are the work of an amateur, who has reproduced with great 
accuracy and good effect the natural feeling of the old 
designs. The appearance is quite that of ancient Eastern 
embroideries. The work is close, the whole of the block- 
pattetn requiring to be colored, and therefore somewhat 
costly, but it well repays the time and labor expended on it. 


City Homes. — The hints which are so courteously thrown 
out by an exchange, on a subject which will no doubt interest 
many of our readers, especially those who are residents of 
city homes, we deem worthy of reproduction in our columns. 
Consideration for the feelings of others should guide every 
neighbor in any matter that may fcave a tendency to disturb 
or annoy. But we refer our readers to the language of the 
exchange : 

'• Among the many advantages of a city life may be 
counted the perfect freedom of each household to make its 
own friends. It is not necessary to be intimate with one's 
neighbors on either side; is possible to live for 
years and not know the people in the next house by sight. 
But there are certain acts of thoughtfulness which should 
govern us when we consider how thin are the partition-walls 
between houses. The piano, which is a source of pride and 

delight to a fond mamma or admiring friends, may be a 
source of great annoyance to the neighbors ; a trouble which 
can be greatly diminished by placing the piano against the 
wall of the room that divides the drawing-room from the 
staircase, or if for any reason that is inconvenient, let it 
stand out from the wall, the back (if it is an upright) being 
easily ornamented. It is not considerate to play late, or to 
allow the children to practice before,, the usual breakfast- 
time. Children should be taught to consider the neighbors, 
and deny themselves drums and whistles. But in the matter 
of street music, above all, we should consider our neighbors, 
for we can do more in this way to annoy, or assist each 
other's comfort. We should imagine there were very few 
people who really enjoy a grinding organ ; but if they do, 
they surely can deny themselves when they consider how 
such sounds rack delicate nerves, and make brain -work an 



impossibility. Bands are somewhat different, for sometimes 
they are good and endurable ; but where it is seen that one 
householder stops the band, it is very inconsiderate of a 
neighbor to encourage it. While to every citizen his house 
is his castle, he should consider the comfort of others, and 
not conduct himself as if half a mile away from all neigh- 

The Linen-Press. — To those who love housekeeping, 
or who feel an interest in it for duty's sake, the charge of 
linen, and the great care it requires, is' one of equal impor- 
tance with the store-closet. It is a pity to trust to finding a 
linen-closet in any house. If you do find one in a house 
that has been occupied, it forms part of that delightful cate- 
gory of articles and fixtures which demand a " premium." 
Therefore, we should advise people when they furnish, to 
have a really good linen-closet made of cedar-wood or 
polished pine, just as you would require a sideboard or a 
book-case. Do not have more than five shelves. It is a 
great mistake to have too high a linen-press; the upper 
shelves only get covered with dust. A portable linen- press 
and a portable store-closet are two very necessary comforts 
in a house, for they can be put into the regulation "smoking- 
room," and are much more convenient to the mistress of a 
house when placed there than in the basement ; and it also 
saves a great deal of labor to servants. We always feel that 
it is more comfortable to have linen stores and extra glass 
and china on the dining-room floor, if we can possibly 
manage it. It works in many ways : the servants are neater 
in their own appearance when they have to bring their trays 
to your own private room, and it does not at all interfere 
with the men of your family using it as a smoking-room 
too; and we also feel that in such a room we can more 
conveniently see the servants alone, if we have anything to 
say to them,* whereas in the basement others are coming in 
and out: In fact, it is altogether a much more independent 
and private position for the mistress, and enables her to 
avoid being so impolitic as to let one servant hear her 
reproving or teaching another. 

An experienced woman once told us she never gave a 
lecture to a servant unless she felt very well dressed. Cer- 
tainly, in these leveling days, one must cultivate stateliness 
as a dam to the stream. Nothing does a lady more credit in 
housekeeping than her linen-press, and how any woman 
who has not a housekeeper can engage the present ordinary 
style of housemaid to take charge of the linen, we cannot 
imagine, — that is, if she has any pride in her house and 
table-linen. There is a good deal of mind and refinement 
needed in the care and arrangement of a linen-press. 

Young and inexperienced housekeepers must remember 
that no good housekeeping can be done without taking pains 
and trouble, nor wjjhout great industry. As to the first, 
purchasing of house and table linen, it is not a difficult thing 
to advise others about. It is so different from quantities of 
bread, meat, and groceries, which of course vary in every 
house ; but, with the exception of a larger or smaller number 
of beds, the same arrangement of linen is required in every 
gentleman's house. 

To begin with old linen : for years we have adopted the 
plan of giving the members of the family their own separate 

and distinct set of sheets, bolster-cases, and pillow-cases, 
also bedroom-towels, and, in addition to the name of the 
master of the house, we put the name of the individual 
whose bed and room it is for. Of course, in the case of the 
servants' things, we put their particular calling as a mark, 
and not their personal names, as they are, like Easter, mova- 
ble feasts. For every member of the family have three pairs 
of sheets ; for every servant have twd pairs ; and for wear, 
color, and comfort have linen. Cotton sheets never look 
well, and, like cretonne, they pick up every particle of dust; 
and as to their being better for health, we think as long as 
we wear long-cloth night-dresses we are sufficiently pro- 
tected in the matter of health. No linen is so pretty as* the 
Irish; but for long wear, and for improving in washing, 
none can excel the Yorkshire. For each member of the 
family we would therefore recommend Barnsley linen sheet- 
ing, sufficient for three pairs for each bed. For each person 
have two bolster-cases and six pillow-cases, these eight arti- 
cles to be made, for beauty's sake, of Irish linen. For each 
member of the family have twelve towels. Let four be 
Turkish or bath-towels of linen, four of strong huckaback, 
and four embossed. In buying toweling by the yard, allow 
thirteen yards to a dozen towels, as the hems reduce a yard 
too much. For each visitor's room we consider two pairs of 
sheets sufficient, and let them be of Irish linen. Visitors 
must have clean sheets each week, but a fortnight is a 
reasonable time for all the others. For each servant have 
two pairs of sheets, of strong Barnsley linen. If you prefer 
cotton, do not get that make that used to be called Bolton 
sheeting, for one way of the threads is so much stronger 
than the other that it wears badly. For cotton-sheeting 
nothing wears so well as twilled cotton. Give each servant 
three pillow-cases of strong linen. Never have strings to 
your pillow-cases; always buttons and button-holes very 
close together. For each servant have four huckaback 
towels. Cover all pillows and bolsters with long-cloth or 
linen, sewed on, and once a year have it picked off and 
washed. Cover palliasses, mattresses, and feather-beds with 
glazed brown holland, made to fit and button, and once a 
year have them cleaned and re-calendered" 

Fashionable Small-Talk. — There are certain phrases 
current in good society which do duty again and again, and 
the knowledge of which or the ignorance of the same 
proves a person to be initiated or uninitiated in what is 
aptly termed the small-talk of society. The highest educa- 
tion is naturally the key-note to all that is refined and 
polished in the art of conversing, and enables a person to 
steer clear of all errors of speech or vulgarisms of expres- 
sion that those less well educated invariably perpetrate ; but 
there is a point where Fashion steps in and sets her seal upon 
certain expressions, while she tabooes others; and yet if we 
attempt to analyze or define or examine the phrases and 
expressions or modes of speech upon which the fickle 
goddess so determinately places her foot, we find that there 
is method in her madness, and that the phrases thus objected 
to are in reality inelegancies of diction and vulgarisms of 
speech. In a recent publication, entitled " Society Small- 
Talk," a chapter is given on vulgarisms of speech, and we 
read a string of phrases that are pronounced objectionable 



and in bad taste, to which might well be added such 
expressions as the following : " We have had a great deal of 
sickness in our house," or " My mother has been sick a long 
time." The word sickness used with regard to ill-health is 
decidedly the wrong word in the wrong place, and Fashion 
is in the right to shake her head at it, and to substitute the 
words illness and ill for the words so misapplied. He or 
she " is nicely well," or he or she " is sadly," or he or she i 
" has the headache," are all open to objection ; and nicely , 
and sadly are adverbs that should not be employed in refer- [ 
ence to health, neither should the definite article " the" be 
employed in describing that universal malady, a headache. 
In every expression of this character, the surest rule is to 
strictly adhere to those words which most definitely express , 
the meaning intended to be conveyed, and not to take 
refuge in words which imply a meaning totally different 
from the one intended, or which go but a short way on the 
road to a full explanation. Exclamatory phrases to denote 
astonishment are a large family, and a very ill-bred one. 
" Good gracious," " O Lor'," " Good Heavens," " Oh, my," 
" Well, I never," *' Did you ever," " Dear me," and so on, 
are vulgarisms to ears polite. It may he objected that these 
expressions are not made use of by persons who aspire to 
take rank among the upper classes of society; but in point 
of fact many who lay claim to this distinction constantly 
indulge in each and every vulgarism here mentioned, and { 
many others equally provocative of criticism. 

There are several descriptions of small-talk current in 
society. One delights in the gossipy, another in the matter- 
of-fact, a third in the humorous, a fourth in the imaginative, j 
and so on ; but conversation that takes place between persons ! 
who have but just been, introduced, and who have not yet ; 

discovered whether any common bond of union exists between 
them or not, is naturally confined to trivialities. The great 
difficulty with many is the choice of a subject wherewith to 
set the ball rolling ; and those who have not a ready flow of 
small-talk at command should bear in mind that self is a 
pleasant topic to most men and women, and that to express 
an interest in all that concerns another, whether it be pur- 
suits, engagements, occupations, or opinions, is a safe and 
pleasant conversational-ground to tread. But the line should 
always be drawn between kindly interest and idle curiosity; 
the one is expressive of sympathy and regard, the other is 
indicative of ill-breeding. There are many subjects which 
cannot be made channels of agreeable small-talk, and which, 
when mooted, do not fail to bore those upon whom they are 
inflicted; and heading the category are domestic grievances, 
and the shortcomings of servants in general. 

The art of making agreeable small-talk in a great measure 
consists in choosing a subject likely to prove congenial. The 
surest way to arrive at this is to consider the social position, 
occupation, and proclivities of the person with whom one 
intends opening a conversation. When small-talk has been 
once fairly launched or started, a novice in the art of carry- 
ing on a conversation should beware of shunting it into a 
siding, or driving it into a corner from whence it is impos- 
sible to extricate it. This catastrophe is often occasioned 
by an abrupt remark, or by an uncomplimentary silence 
when a word of assent was required to give a monologue 
the complexion of a dialogue, whereas a " Really," or an 
•' Indeed," uttered in various keys at various points, gives 
that fillip without which a one-sided conversation must 
inevitably fall flat or expire from sheer inanition. 


Christmas and Small Boys (A Realistic Sketch). — 
Christmas time ! Christmas in the old homestead ! Of all 
holidays, this is the one for enjoyment. It is a day of 
rejoicing in the household, a day of prayer, and a day of 
rest. Everybody, from the head of the house down to the 
maid, is determined to have a good time. It is a day of 
family reunions. The old man sits in his easy-chair enjoy- 
ing the scene — and calculating the size of the next week's 
grocery-bill. The married daughter from New York is 
there with her husband, the broker, who is giving the 
father-in-law a " point in stocks^" The youngest daughter, 
who has just returned from boarding-school, deposits her 
" gum" under the parlor mantel, and says she thinks the 
decorations are quite au fait. The intellectual young man 
with the eye-glasses is the nephew from Boston. The son 
who holds a clerkship in one of the " departments" arrives 
from Washington, and is immediately overwhelmed by his 
admiring family with questions concerning " things up tew 
the White House." 

But the most important adjunct to a Christmas festival is 
the small boy, — the father's pride and the mother's joy. He 

gets ahead of every one else by several laps. He is here 
and there and everywhere. He is restless and feverish. 
He can't remain in the same room or sit in the same chair 
for any length of lime. He rushes into the parlor with a 
whoop and a yell, treads on the dog's tail, climbs onto his 
uncle's lap, overwhelms him with caresses, leaves a pink 
streak of " Christmas candy" on his shirt-front, and then, 
having accomplished his work of destruction, makes a 
bee-line for the sitting-room, where he amuses himself by 
squeezing a funeral march out of the accordeon. Then he 
wanders away in the direction of the kitchen, where the 
cook is holding a session with closed doors. He has no 
patience with her. She is too slow for him. So he returns 
to the parlor and rehearses the programme. 

At church he is restless and fidgety. His " governor" 
smiles serenely at the minister for a time, and drops off" into 
a gentle doze. His big sister nudges her *' ma," and asks 
her whether she ever saw anything so outrageous as that 
dolman of Mrs. Robinson's. But the small boy cares for 
none of these things. He is utterly oblivious of the presence 
of his cronies in the gallery. He even forgets to make 



faces at the young man with the eye-glasses, and call him 
" Goggles;" and the minister's words make no more impres- 
sion on him than a temperance lecture on a Congressman. 
His thoughts are far away from the sermon. *' Will the old 
fellow never get done ? Why can't he let up and tell the 
rest some other time," he says to himself. " Gosh darn it 
all !" 

At last the sermon is over; the interminable homeward 
journey is ended, and the Christmas dinner is announced. 
And what a dinner it is ! I low the table groans beneath the 
weight of the good things heaped upon it ! How the mince- 
pie smokes and the cider sparkles 1 How the big turkey — 
the crowning glory of the feast — looms up from the middle 
of the table, crisp, brown, and juicy. It's just " hunky." 
The small boy's mouth fairly waters, at the sight. He 
realizes that life is worth living for, and feels as happy as a 
tramp with a new vest. How he fondles his stomach in 
gleeful anticipation of the good things it will hold! How 
he plies his knife when his plate is filled ! How he pitches 
into the turkey and stows away the cranberries ! How he gets 
outside the mince- pie and packs the plum-pudding under 
his vest! An hour passes. The company lean back in 
their chairs and begin to talk. And still he eats. The cook 
grows hungry, but the knife and fork keep on rattling with 
unabated vigor. The clock strikes three ; the conversation 
lags. And still he eats. 

At length the Christmas dinner is over, and the company 
separate with light hearts and heavy stomachs. The ladies 
retire to the sitting-room to discuss the latest fashion in 
overskirts. The gentlemen adjourn to the parlor to enjoy a 
quiet cigar and the gripes. The small boy contrives to lift 
himself out of his chair, and contemplates his neatly-rounded 
vest with infinite satisfaction. Then he sighs softly; but he 
doesn't mean to stop eating. He has just begun operations. 
He hauls his box of candies from under the sofa and sails 
in. He •roams over the house like a cow in a vegetable- 
garden. He enters the parlor, fires gum- drops at the Christ- 
mas-tree, flattens his nose against the window, and sticks 
out his tongue at a passing church-elder in the exuberance 
of his joy. Then he looks at the . pictures of the good boy 
in his Sunday-school book, and rushes out into the yard and 
stones the cat. 

The afternoon wears on and evening comes ; but he has 
no appetite for supper. There is a vague uneasiness — an 
undefinable something — in the depths of his turkey sepulchre 
that forbids the banns. At length, the shades of night 
descend upon the earth, and the household retires to rest.. 
The day is over with its many joys, and night comes with 
its soothing murmur to lull the earth to sleep. 

Christmas night ! How calm is the night ! There is not 
a sound on the earth, nor in the air, nor in the waters under 
the earth. All is silence — deep, dark, impenetrable silence. 

Suddenly a mournful howl, like the wail of a lost spirit or 
the despairing cry of a jilted cat, rings out on the night air. 
Then the pattering of many feet and the slamming of doors 
are heard, and at length a dark figure, clutching a pair of 
trousers by the waistband, darts out of the front door of the 
small boy's domicile, over across the street to the little red 
office, and pulls the bell. Soon it returns in company with 
another figure, holding under one arm something attached to 

a long coil of hose. They enter the house together, and 
then another series of howls louder than the first are heard, 
accompanied by a peculiar puffing sound like the noise of 
an engine in full blast. The neighbors think it's a fire, and 
windows are opened and night-caps thrust out, but no engine 
is in sight. Then a zealous neighbor hastily dresses himself, 
and pounds on the door of the small boy's house, shouting 
meanwhile that " the b'iler's a bustin'." 

But he is wrong. It is only the doctor interviewing 
Tommy with a stomach-pump; and when the gray light of 
dawn steals' over the wearied earth, it shines upon the 
sickest looking specimen of a floored turkey-eater of a boy 
the angels ever wept over. 

He Wanted a Second- Handed " Doorkey." — A 

Tenth-street grocer was standing behind the counter in his 
store the other day, busily engaged in sanding the sugar, 
when in came a stranger with a huge basket on his arm. 

" Well, my friend, what can I do for you ?" asked the 
grocer, coming forward. 

" I vant a doorkey," said the stranger, casting his eye 
over the display of poultry; " a Grismas doorkey." 

•' A doorkey ! A turkey, you mean ?" 

" Yah, dot vas it," said the' Dutchman, smiling blandly; 
" a doorkey. Done I say dot ? How you sold 'em ?" 

•" Two dollars apiece." 

" Two dollar abiece ! Gott im Himmel ! Do you dink I 
vas a Roachchild ? Two dollar for a skeeny leetle doorkey ! 
You saw some grass in mein eye, hey ?" 

" That's the price." 

" Sthop a meenit, mein friendt ! Dere vas nodding 
schmall about dis rooster; aber my vife he say to me dis 
morning, ' Yawcob,' he say, • of you bay more als a dollar 
for dot doorkey, look oud for sgwalls,' and he mean it, py 
grachus ! Now, done you god a lame vone ?" he inquired. 

" No." 

" Conseeder ! conseeder ! Vone dot fell mit himself down* 
und broke his neck ?" he suggested. " Done you god vone 
dot died mit de rhumadicks, or de apischnootic, or de schmall- 
box ? Vas none of dose doorkeys sthruck by lidening ? Py 
shiminy, done you god a second-handed vone ?" 

" No, sir ! No, sir !" 

" Veil, wrab him up ! aber recommember, mein friendt, 
of you saw a baldt- headed Dutchmans, mit a wart py his 
nose, schootin' droo de back yard mit a beer-glass behindt 
him, dot vas my vife, un' done you forgot it !" And he 
paid for the turkey and left. 

Christmas, 1880. — Tt was the day before Christmas. It 
was cold — piercingly cold. The snow was on the ground 
and in the air and over all the landscape. The wind blew a 
steady gale that chilled the wayfarer to the bone. The ice 
lay thick on land and stream, and the frost that had gathered 
on the window-panes showed no sign of melting. It was 
early morning, and the city was just awakening from its 
slumber. The streets were almost deserted. Here and 
there a thrifty laborer or an early newsboy could be seen 
wending his way along the frozen sidewalk, and occasionally 
the roll of the baker's cart, or the tinkling of the milkman's 
bell, rang out on the clear morning air.. People were not 



yet astir; but in one house, marble-fronted and spacious, 
looming high above all the rest, there was life and bustle, and 
cheerful hearth -fires cast a ruddy glow over soft carpets and 
costly mirrors and rare works of art. Surely, all was happi- 
ness there ! Not much. Back in the dining-room the early 
breakfast stood untasted on the. table. The housewife sat in 
a rocking-chair, an expression of unutterable scorn on her 
face. The husband raced about the room,- upsetting the 
furniture, tearing his hair, and acting for all the world like a 
candidate for a lunatic asylum. The youthful son and heir 
lay flat on the floor, playing a wild tattoo with his heels, and 
yelling like a double-barreled Comanche. Poor little Johnny ! 
He wanted a Christmas-tree. But no Christmas-tree will 
grace the Smitherton mansion this year. The old man 
staked his pile on Hancock. 

Rules for New- Year Callers. — i. Hire a hall. If you 
can't afford that, hire a hack. 

2. Order some cards representing a chubby youngster 
kicking a bald-headed man with a lawn-mower off the end 
of a globe. This design was invented by Adam ; but yon 
needn't care Adam for that. 

3. Borrow a plug hat and a white tie, and trot out your 
lavender trousers. If you haven't any lavender trousers, 
you needn't mind putting them on. 

4. Select a friend to accompany you. In making the 
selection, care should be taken to choose him for his staying 
qualities. A sort of portable lamp-post will best serve your 

5. Start out early, and call on your best girl first. Don't, 
for Heaven's sake, and your own, leave it until the last. 
Chocolate and pound-cake. 

6. In making the next call, bounce into the parlor, throw 
your ulster over a chair, put your hat on the mantel, take 
the girl by the hand, shake well before using, and then say 
" Happy New Yearj' three times. The expression is original 
and highly poetic, and is sure to be appreciated. Black coffee. 

7. If the girl at the next house has red hair and freckles, 
leave your friend entertain her, and devote your energies to 
the refreshments and the old lady, especially the former. 
Hard cider and ginger-snaps. 

8. When you call on the fourth girl, take the dog on your 
lap, and make it bark to attract attention to your trousers. 
When she asks you to "take something," protest vehem- 
ently, tell her you belong to the Y.M.C.A., that you made 
a solemn vow that day to stop short at cider, and then yield 
gracefully, quoting the lines about "lovely woman," etc., 
and take a darn good swig. Rhine wine. 

9. If the next girl lives in a brown-stone house, clean your 
shoes on the scraper. Should the steps be of marble, fresco 
them with snow and street-mud, so that she may remember 
you in her prayers when she scrubs them next day — the 
steps, not the prayers. Talk about the weather. Sherry. 

10. Don't be too fresh with No. 6. She has a neat waist, 
but you had better hug the piano stool. It would be safer. 
Talk some more about the weather. Hot whisky-punch. 

11. No, young man ! there's nothing the matter with the 
bricks. The pavement is steady enough. Now the wisdom 
of our fourth rule comes in. Lean on your friend and get 
into the carriage. House No. 7. Don't sit down on the 

floor. The chair's on the other side of you. You must be 
seeing double. Talk about nothing at all. Your voice is 
apt to be unsteady, and your words will slide into another 
in a frightful way. Blue-grass whisky. 

12. If her imp of a brother laughs at you as you walk 
down the steps, and advises you to " take that brick out of 
your hat," straighten up like a man, and try to look dignified. 
It's well to try, anyhow. Don't attempt to kiss the next 
girl's mother; kissing goes by favor, and she favors the old 
man. Beware of the centre-table. W r alk round it three 
times ; then steer for the sofa. Triple extract of Bourbon. 


13. Perhaps a station-house bench isn't a bed of roses, 
but you must make the best of it. Don't use your plug hat 
for a pillow — it might ruffle it; but, wrapping about you 
the drapery of your (wooden) couch, lie down to pleasant 
dreams. When morning comes, pay your fine like a little 
man, make a bee-line for the nearest saloon, and bury your 
noise and your grief in an 1S81 cocktail. 

Ancient Order of the Sons and Daughters of Moses. 
— Brudder Balaam's New- Year's sermon. 

The members of the Ancient Order of the Sons and 
Daughters of Moses met in solemn conclave this week to 
celebrate the first anniversary of its founding. The A.O.S. 
D.M. was organised a year ago by a number of ladies and 
gentlemen representing the crhne de la crime (chocolate) 
of Koshtown society. The necessity for such an organiza- 
tion had been acknowledged on all sides, and accordingly, 
when Balaam Johnson, Esq., H.C., issued an address to his 
friends, calling upon them to meet at the Nebuchadnezzar 
Church of the Colored Prophets, there was a hearty response, 
more than three hundred " cull'd folks" assembling in the 
chapel. After much weighty discussion, the A.O.S.D.M. 
was then and there organized, with three hundred members, 
Brudder Balaam being unanimously chosen Grand Keeper 
of the Sacred Hod. This was a delicate compliment to his 
well-known professional skill, Brudder Balaam being (though 
he always declared that he was " in de real-'state bizness, 
sah!"), in the language of the worldly, a plain, unmitigated, 
two-by-nine hod-carrier. But genius sometimes walks in rags, 
and though Brudder Balaam toiled in rain and shine for a 
dollar a day, he gave his nights to thought and the composi- 
tion of certain sacred discourses for the edification of the 
A.O.S.D.M., which are now given to the world. 

Where Brudder Balaam — he was known far and near by 
that title — came from was a mystery, and remains a mystery 
to this day. Whether he hailed from the land of roast mis- 
sionary or from the moon, or whether he was a Harvard 
graduate in disguise, no one could tell. He was young, 
gifted, and beautiful — as a what-is-it; but no one knew any- 
thing about him. He came to Koshtown many years ago, 
with a smile on his face and a banjo on his back, rented a 
little cabin at the top of the hill, and has remained there 
ever since. As he could dance a breakdown, rattle "de 
bones," sing a hymn, play " de banjy," " raise" a hencoop, 
and clean out a •• watermillion"-patch better than any other 
nigger in the county, he at once took the lead in society; 
but after he turned poacher he forswore such amusements 
(though his enemies denied it), gave his flowered vest to a 



tramp, and appeared in public in an awe-inspiring " pickum- 
dilly" and a second-handed " swaller-tail." 

What was done at the anniversary of the A.O.S.D.M. will 
never be known to the world ; but after certain mysterious 
forms and ceremonies, B rudder Balaam arose from his seat, 
ascended the platform, and announced, amid a perfect storm 
of applause, that he would preach his " fust New-Yeah's 
sarmon." When quiet had been restored, the Grand Keeper 
of the Sacred Hod cleared his throat, arranged his " pickum- 
dilly," and delivered himself as follows : 

" De wind am a screechin' an' howlin' frew de tree-tops. 
De snow-bird am a hoppin' o'er de ground. De water-pipes 
am freezing an' de plumber am dancin' a wild mazerker. 
My bruddern, de end ob de yeah am heah. De Lawd gib 
ns mighty little warnin'. Gabriel blowed de hornpipe, an* 
lo an' behol' ! it am heah. De seasuns hab cum an' gone, 
like de cullah on a two-dollah coat. De lamb an' de spring 
chicken am no mo'. Watermillions am a dream ob de parst. 
De organ-grindah hez gone wid de s wallers whar de cotton- 
tree blows. De tramp am deported from de landscape. 
De neck-tie man hez packed up his yaller lady-killahs, sole 
his julery case, an' done gone into de ches'nut-roastin' biz- 
ness. De red-nosed fishahmin who cou'dn't cotch a blin' 
mack'rel am widout a occipashun. De boy dat fooled wid 
a Fourferjuly canyon am about patched up. De fan an' de 
sun-umbrelly am no mo' use dan a club in fly-time. Straw 
hats hab been called in. De muskeeter hez stowed away 
his banjy till de summer cums. De blue-nosed fly am a 
hidin' away in de cracks, winkin' at de Hah, an' de ball- 
headed man am snoozin' unpertected in de arm- cheer. De 
seasun ob camp-meetin's am ober; no mo' hidin' unner de 
benches; no mo' wax in de preecher's cheer — yo' heah me, 
yo' boys up dar in de galFry? De craps am all in,— we 
hab shucked de coahn an' groun' de buckwheat. We hab 
slewed de hog an' salted down de poke. De old ulstah hez 
been shook up fur anudder yeah. De holey glubs an' de 
antiquoted hat am on de top agin. Yes, sah ! De hollerin' 
days am ober. We done gobbled up de Tanksgibbin' tu'key 
an' dewoured de Krissmus pie. We done had de plum- 
puddin' an' de belly-ache. We hab enj'yed de cidah an' 
de gripes. 

"An' now, my bruddern, 'pears to me et's mighty nigh 
time to riz up an' look aroun*. Kase why ? Kase de end ob 
de yeah am heah. Unly a few mo' days, an' de Lawd '11 be 
puttin' dat little figuh I — 1881 — top o' yoh grocumry-bill. 
Am yo> giviue to pay it f Am yo' gwine to liquefy dat bill, 
or am yo' gwine to sneak out de back doah by tellin' de ole 
man to wait till nex' Krismuss ? Did yo' pay yoh bills dis 
yeah? Hab yo' shelled out fo' yoh coahn an' 'taters an' 
'lasses an' hominy an' oats? Hab yo' cum down wid de 
shinplasters fo' yoh bandanncrs an' plug-hats an' swaller- 
tail coats ? Chalkitdown Jones, — yo* daf in de cornah wid 
yoh arm 'roun* yoh gal, — did yo' pay fur dat yaller tie? 
Dat am de queschun ! 'Foh de Lawd, I doan b'liebc yo' 
did. Down on yoh knees, bruddern ! Down on yoh knees, 
sisterin! an' pray to de Lawd dat ebbery man dat hobbled 
frew de yeah on trust '11 cum to de front an' pay up, — or git 
de gran' bounce when he arsks fo' mo' credit! Hallelu ! 

" Now dat de fust ob de yeah am nigh, an' de snow an' de 
Ian' lawd am a cumin', it am a good time, — a werry good 

time, — my bruddern, to sit by de fiah an' toast yoh toes an* 
fink. Wat hab yo' did dis yeah? Ho'miny lies did yo' 
tell ? Ho'miny times did yo' go to chu'ch ? Ho'miny times 
did yo' play de banjy Sund'ys ? Ho'miny watermillions did 
yo' carry off o' 'Square Jones's patch ? Ho'miny chickens 
did yo' steal ? An* ho'miny o' dem did yo' gib de preecher? 
Mighty few, bruddern, mighty few, I kin tell yo' dat! 
Stealin' chickens am worse 'n swarin', an' it ain't a gwine 
to boost yo' frew de gates ob heaben, — on less yo' gibs de 
spiles to yoh preecher! 

** Mos' ob yo', I'll be boun', did ebberyfing dat wuz bad. 

Et's no use d'n'yin' it, fur I know 't myseff. De debbil 

offen had yo' by de coat-tails, pullin' yo' down to hell. Sum 

\ o' yo' war nigh harf way down, an' I helped to hist yo' up, 

1 an' got my fingahs scoached moh'n once. 

j " Now, my bruddern, less turn ober a new leaf, — de 

i Bible-leaf. De new yeah am cumin', an' de little angel dat 

I takes de senses am waitin' to see how menny good niggers 

I dere air. Stop lyin' an' swarin'. Doan play de banjy on 

de Sabbat'. 'Tend chu'ch reg'ler. Stop kissin' de gals. 

Keep out de watermillion-patch. Let de chickens 'lone. 

Pay off yoh debts. Doan run up bills. Ef yo' want to 

dance, alius pay de piper. Doan put dart in de whitewash. 

Shake de carpets clean, an' doan wash down de dust wid too 

much kill-me-quick. Swar off, bruddern, swar off! Yo' 

young darkeys, doan yo' go out callin' New Yeah's. Stay at 

hum an' read de Bible. De gals can do widout yo', an* 

yoh heads woaji feel like bushel -barskets nex' mo'nin'! 

An' yo' dar in de back seat, wid de frilled shart an' de wart 

on yoh nose, ef yo' doan cum down wid dat pew-rent fo' 

nex' Sund'y, I'll 'spose yo' fo' de hull meetin' ! Yo' heah 

me ? Amen ! We will now parse de hat." 

Seasonable Reflections. — Nothing is so exasperating 
to a man with a cold in his head as the sight of his wife 
bending over a fragrant hyacinth. 

If you want to come out at the big end of the horn this 
year, you must start in with something more than a lop- 
sided diary and a three-cent pencil. 

We've had our Thanksgiving turkey, and it didn't agree 
with us. But we mean to try it over again this week if it 
takes our last cent for blue pills and stomach-bitters. 

Its a very good thing at this time of the year to swear off; 
but the man who indulges in seven cocktails and a " cobbler" 
to celebrate the event and give him strength to carry out his 
resolution is a trifle too enthusiastic to hold out long. 

If you are weighed down with an overpowering sense of 
fullness and too much dinner, you had better give the 
seductive pie a wide berth. It requires great tact, profound 
judgment, and a copper-lined stomach to keep a mince-pie 
from rearing up on its hind legs and starting out on the 
war-path against seven-eighths of a pound of turkey, plenty 
of " stumV," five sweet potatoes, seven pickles, three feet of 
celery, a quart of cranberries, and a liberal allowance of cider. 

In the short space of two months, just twelve hundred and 
sixty-three and a half (1263.5) Bernhardt jokes have been 
tired upon a suffering public, and yet not one of them con- 
tained even the remotest allusion to the fact that Sarah is 
about the size and shape of a telegraph pole. It is strange 
that this important point should have been overlooked. 

Potter's American Monthly. 



By James Clement Ambrose. 

"This way, please, friends; take Ihe 'Platte ' 
Valley" sleeper; the gentlemanly porter yonder 
will pass in your little, girl and your satchels." 

The speaker was arranging an excursion party 
to go by rail. 

"Thank you, sir," said I, walking in the way 
his hand waved. "Here we are, 'Em'; this is 
the 'P. V., 'silver mounting and velvet finish; no 
life among the lowly in this home on wheels. 
We'll have nothing to do for a week but eat, 
sleep, and be merry ! Who'd be a prince when 
he could just as well be an alderman?" 

" Pass along the aisle, please," said the porter. 
"Section eight, lower berth; there you are, Dolly 
Vol. XVI.— 7 

Dimple, my child. Now for the next. Here 
they come. Right there, please, sir; section ten; 
plenty of room ; everybody going to be jolly." 

Then the keen young man of color turned again 
to the door to be ready to continue his kindness 
toward any new group of excursionists. He wore 
his easy smile as a part of his uniform. And he 
observed to himself, " How very young men hold 
office and manage cities in this new country west 
of the Missouri ! But, then, everybody seems 10 
be young out here ; old folks mostly stay back 
East. I " 

Ah I Slopping short, down the steps he readies, 
and graciously gathers in another pair of grip sjtks. 



a plethoric shawl-strap, etc., and is followed by 
the mayor of Omaha (a bright lawyer of only 
twenty-four years) and his young bride. 

Back and forth thus, like a shuttle, runs the 
attentive porter, till the " Platte Valley" is com- 
fortably crowded with amateur office-holders and 
the ladies and children whom they know best. 

"Good-bye 1 good-bye I" " Don't let the baby 
fall off the porch, Kate!" "Don't forget to feed 
Towser, Tom !" " 13e good, Jimmy, while pa is 

gone, and he'll bring you something tunny from 

A score or two of these farewells and short 
orders for good behavior jump out at the open car 
windows as the conductor makes " All aboard !" 
his good-bye. 

"Puff!" Now the iron horse yawns, stretches, 
shakes himself like a big, strong boy, who, when 
first spoken to, is slow. The drive-wheels slug- 
gishly lift their down-edges up ; the car-couplings 
tighten. "Tuff! Puff! l'uff!" Faster, (aster, 
faster! Harder, harder, harder, the monster 
plants his iron hoofs along the iron pavement. 
Now the ups and downs of the wheels chase each 
other swiftly till their spokes and felloes melt 
into shadow, and their hum and rattle rise to the 

: dignity *f power. Sight yields to sound. Bolt- - 

heads, heads out of windows, and the head of the 
, train vanish as we round a curve and dash into a 
cut. Smoke floats over the train, and the dry dust 
: of earth rolls from underneath to shake his soiled 
garments in the faces of the few who will stand 
on the rear platform. Out thus from the city 
that is set on a hill into the prairie wide and wild I 
This event became historical in the summer of 
I 1868. Then everybody who could gain a. " com- 
plimentary" over the 
roads just rushed 
through towards the 
Missouri River, and 
over that great nov- 
elty, the Union Pa- 
cific Railway, was 
deeply interested in 
seeing how far the 
latter had wandered 
into the Rocky Moun- 

When, therefore, 
one hundred Chicago 
officials (including 
families) had thus 
reached Omaha, and 
had added the " free- 
dom" of that city 
to their free passage, 
they felt free to aug- 
ment their company 
for the Union Pacific 
|llN jaunt in palace curs 

by a dozen- officials 
of "Young Chicago," as Omaha then took childish 
pride in rechristening herself. And it was to be of 
this party that we had for a 1 week left with a neigh- 
bor the key to our little hillside cottage. 

At that time the track of the "U. P.," as hurried 
people abbreviate the name, V was laid westward 
through Nebraska and half-way across Wyoming, 
to the North Pork of the Platte* River, a distance 
of about seven hundred and f)fty miles. Hy a 
horseshoe loop of twenty miles j the track escapes 
from the ten miles of hills rolling back from the 
Missouri, and thence glides fijve hundred miles 
without a hill up the Platte "galley, which had 
given its good name to our sleekwr. 

That was fine riding, savtf its monotonous 
scenery. Beyond its initial mundred miles, at 



that date, almost the only inhabitants were wild 
ones. Buffaloes fed within full view from the 
cars; antelopes ambled within pistol-shot, and 
many fruitless shots were fired at them from the 
moving train ; the prairie-dogs had established 
many "villages" in the valley, but had nowhere 
erected a depot and eating-house for human 
travelers. Every few miles there were groups of 
dilapidated kennels built of sods, and in size and 
shape about like the old-fashioned Dutch ovens. 
In these the men who had graded the road-bed 

for a long look ahead were Mr. Gray and his son 
Ned, a boy of twelve years. To the west the 
track seemed to jump off from somewhere into 
nowhere, so rapidly did it sink out of sight, not 
to resume the normal level of a well-behaved 
railroad till it touched the broad Laramie Plains 
far in the distance. 

First astonishment over, "There, Ned," said 
Mr. Gray, "with snow smooth and wind aft, as 
the sailors say, I think you might slide down-hill 
for twenty-five miles or so." 

and laid down the track had slept at night. West 
from Cheyenne, Indians often "rose red on our 
virion," and the character of the riding was 
chiefly up and down, twist and turn, on a rail. 
But these twelve years have given the track an 
■ . er inclination and a firmer ballast. 

The "pass" through which the road crosses the 
range of mountains in Southeastern Wyoming is, 
after all, a very serious elevation, being nearly 
nine thousand feet above the sea, or about 
eighteen times the elevation of Chicago. On the 
summit stands Sherman, a station so named to 
remind travelers of our army general. To approach 
it from either side is up-hill work. 

There our pleasure-train halted to take breath 
and feed the faithful horse. Among those who 
dm stepped out and climbed up a side eminence 

"Whew!" replied Ned, "shouldn't I hate to 
draw the hand-sled back, though ! Have to take 
a feather-bed along on such coasting, and stay 
over night somewhere." 

"Ding-dong" went the engine-bell, and down 
the slope of the cut we slid through a mass of 
square gravel, seemingly old boulders cut by 
Nature into angular bits about the size of dice; 
but there was nothing one could call soil : it was 
rock hash. 

Then we were to have a touch of running the 
land rapids. The train entered that abrupt down- 
grade on express-passenger time. The platforms 
were packed, and every open window became a 
portrait-frame to witness the down-hill dash of 
steam against time. Crowds, especially on ex- 
cursions, are seldom conscious of danger; union, 


r-jK iu'itient quells fear, pown we plunge into "Next time I come West I'll ask the conductor 

deep nits ninl around short curves at a mile a to let me get out ami walk clown that hill, if only 

minute! Dust, deafness, ami hang-on, the pro- he'll wait for me along lien- somewhere." 

gramme of all hands! 1'itch, rock, rattle, sway, " Perhaps," I suggested, "you would prefer to 

swoop, and rome right side up without rare, the walk down ahead uf the train." 

programme of our train! How men, women, "No, thank you," he retorted; "I think life 

and children stared and kept still ! They seemed is worth living." 

to feel that there would he something grand in Onward to the end of the track we rode through 

the c.i t astro] >rie of a smash-up just then vmi\ there ! an intensely untamed wilderness. Its only signs 

Now and then the rear car would run on half its _ of mining civilization were the track-laying and 

wheels and flounder from side to side, its layers, a walking village of shanties and tents. 

Magnificently it plaved the victim's part in a that set its stakes for a lew days near the end ol 

great game m " cr.ick-the-whip" — only it didn't the track to fleece travelers and fatten gamblers 

uncouple and roll over. and other evil camp-followers ; and as the restless 

As our horse slackened into a sleadj trot at "end ot the track" moved westward, ihe village 

the fool of a long declivity, and passengers arose and walked after it. 

scramWed from platform* to washrooms, Mr. 

Cray thanked his Mars it was over, and said, on Saturday night. Otir train was m» itched off to 


rtii tliai nipht ami the next .lay. Everybody A <*lm apo (;en:leinan .hi w m 

wanted t.. ■• keep the Sabbath," yn'-i mv. " ll-w m:» h. mv fr.en.l. w.i: i 

Rt.i; sometime* exeursi...:is:- arc a ven ■ r./y «*•! ten ■■» n--.v.r to the |.r-..,k »■!•., 

of «a»e i-t-OfW: thai .-. :h' » ir-c-1 in i- , i'..i- Mr ami - ...» >k -n.i-e ..f lin • e.ith.' 

We-! in thirseiinrc-:ratnc.| l-mcs. Latitude. \-ng\- way?" 

tndc, and lime h:»e their ^'-jen. m-.i.iU >■> Xcl <nnu-i> :.■ ;., 

•• keeping 'lie Sabbath" Im, r.'.! nlway. the s.n.e :ii.t.r. he drawie.l ...... •• I :u- 

meaning. Then. t<>o, are not sl..w •• I'r.-My -i,..-]., .'r.-in^-r; lm! 
to tlii-ik that l'i ride free i* t" own the mail lliey lie • !:•! -.; ami the i.-.. a*.' 

ri-lc over : that it ha* I veil built f,,r then), and ten !•■ the -•nil. in a i :^. 

that it- |.rcM.Unt and are their hire) .1 .h./.n 1... ...k :.....:. an.! -.-..:. 

men. Heme, sotnc ]>c.i|-le very ii..t.->t at home .picer i<> • .nn i .*. K\.n 

think nothing;, when traveling in ymiit* f..r |.iea- More «.■- ial'e.1 .1 t.uiti. H ■ e 

ure with- .»t pay. of helping them-ehe* In *!■ never " K... ki.'- *' Ami tV eis:i;n* 

thev like th it i-n't sjiikeil U-t. *<•••(■ '■•■ • a'l-c the* 1. •■::'.:.'• . 

A Ro. Ity-M. nniain team-tcr. in a I.... k-k : n - . .. Tli. « th-u^'-l ii w .sal-] V ~. 

a sl'rtirhy white hat ..f urn ertain .1^:. lo-ij hair [■■■: rii'.ii.ilain 111 ("I. i. ...*■• ; ..:.-i 
and !><n<: mou-taehr, M"i»l xmiLini; the stunml ' >i!..*i «.;■■!! ••«■'! .*.V- «vei 




The good and wise mothers staid by the train. 
They even held a little meeting of sacred song 
and prayer, inviting in the laborers about the 
station. They didn't see why they should behave 
worse in the Indian country than in Chicago, 
surely. And some of them said they knew some- 
thing awful would happen to somebody before 
night for breaking the Sabbath so. How did 
thev know? 

Said a stalwart young Chicago alderman to me, 
rather slyly : 

" There is a fine little hand-car down the side- 
track; let us get it and give some of the ladies a 
free ride." 

"Agreed," said I. 

It was almost night ; but nobody appeared to 
know or care when our train would move on, or 
whether it ever would. 

A moment later the little car stood on the main 
track. We were ready to run down and capture 
the moss-agate bed somebody had informed us 
existed down the grade a mile or two. Our pas- 
sengers were an elderly lady of nervous tempera- 
ment, one young lady the Chicago alderman was 
fond of, " Em," and our little girl. 

Down the long hill we started, urged by many 

cheers from those we left behind. Mr. D 

and I played deep and rapid strokes upon our 
pump-like engine, and in five minutes down that 
mountain-slope we were shooting with the speed 
of twenty miles an hour ! 

" Button your coat ! jam down your hat ! and 
stop laughing !" I shouted to my comrade, setting 
the example in all but the latter command. He 
couldn't stop laughing. The rush against the wind 
was starting tears and carrying away the ladies' 
handkerchiefs as they tried to dry their eyes, and 
their ribbons were turned into little flapping flags. 
The baby-girl clapped her hands and thumped her 
heels, while her mother and the young lady held 
on for dear life. But our "elderly lady of the 
nervous temperament" grew alarmed for her own 

" Hold up, gentlemen !" she cried, " or I shall 
fall and my dress' 11 be ruined." 

"No danger!" replied Mr. D , as he 

noticed that her strong shawl was fastened under 
her chin, then planted his foot firmly on the 
corner which fell back upon the car -floor. 

We had made the mistake of giving her a front 
seat, so she could get an early view of the country. 

But, feeling her safe, if not her dress, how could 
one look at her and repress laughter ! There she 
sat, scolding continuously; her feet dangled down 
from the forward edge of the car ; her long dress- 
skirt swept backward beneath the car, and already 
was torn into kite-tails, and her exposed moun- 
tain-boots stuck out ahead like a real cow-catcher. 

But the only fall she got was falling into fidgets. 
Then she threatened. 

Said she, "I'll jump, if you don't stop; and 
I'll tell my husband, if ever I get back alive." 

But none of these things moved us to anything 
but laughter. Of course, we wouldn't have seen 
her harmed for the price of a corner lot ; but we 
cruel men fas she thought us), being on an excur- 
sion, were bent, first, on fun, even if we had to 
scare somebody else's wife almost to pieces to get 
it. And it was but little short of that misfortune 
that we stopped. We might properly have been 
counted among those who, starting on an excur- 
sion, leave at home their tender regard for others' 
feelings. Possibly we were not free from the 
unkind tendency of modern youth to make merry 
at the expense of mature age. 

"What time have you?" I inquired of Mr. 
D , with a moist and weary look, at last. 

"6.15," he replied. 

"Then we've been riding down-hill about fif- 
teen minutes. How far have we come, think?" 

"Don't know," said he; "haven't seen any 
moss-agates, anyway." 

But the laughing engine to our train was getting 
out of breath ; just enough left to whistle "down 
brakes !" We slackened labor and the car slackened 
speed. What a ripple of joy then ran over the 
face of our elderly passenger ! We "cruel men" 
had her benediction at last. 

The brakes smoked tli rough another quarter of 
a mile, and we came to a full stop; that is, all but 
Mrs. Elderly. She indeed stopped her fidgets, 
but she kept up her antipathy against that hand- 
car. The instant it stood still she bounded from 
it with the boldness of a lady fighting a mouse. 
She seemed so to "thank her stars" for escape, 
that she heeded not her tattered dress-skirt, which 
I had so faithfully dusted ties by the mile. 
I " Never !" said she, as she straightened up at a 
. safe distance from the track and faced us frown- 
ingly, " never will I go back on that frightful 
, thing!" 

And, curiously enough, the good soul kept her 


word belter than we .ill did the Sabbath. Vera " Let's {■■' and .limb yonder steep hill," siiy- 

Ihink hilt* died l litre? No; ton mm 1. >.piink for gested "Km." 

that. " Iletler keep -' sharp look-out lor Indians, 

Hut when she made that vow out oil it it* d<-sert\ then," -:iid I .; " they're in this region, and they 

she puzzled the List of ii>. We didn't know but hate this r.iihoad ami all who ride m, it." 

that she wni going to enter a i-ome> on She looked down at our little airl, then wnn- 

sat down upon a r.,<k;.n.l patted its Mile with her Mr. h | h|-...h<il :he id- .1 ..1 iEji+.t, 

[SHM*!,— 1 In- lii-WM-llleieiiihliii ilia tie t.hU-ll Lit. til: "I.m" .|m-sliomd him, '-U!.,i it" some m 

Ali otheis sat ,u,d resit d a moment ..n the 1 r, run,. *" 

at.d limjhed, an we drew nioiii.uin-l.Tejlh. •< U',11," >u.l he. !.«^iiinp, •■ 1 o-.dlv d.m'i 

to think of our rcUiniittj; and Mix Evlderl*."- ie- know wt- skill do: but ih.-i.- is Mr-, l.'derly, 

iiuiiitiK on that ancient mk k. And as we sat she isn't wili- or sw.rliieit: U : -- I-"..* hi.ish.d.. 

there we cookd oft' with t-iid l.„,ks ,n the 1111- to eitiier of 11- men ; st.e d<- I.11.-. !..<.. th.n flii-'il 

melted -now in June on I.un/s Pi-.ik. .1 l.umli. <l never ao home ..-, ■-.:* '|--»>" .-i.d I d.-n'l 

ri.iles to the south ■>{ lis. linl Mr < urv. s and see n:> other w.i> h.r i.vr. >.. p-iLip-. if Mi. 

tuts, we loiild not we a hundred rods 11 1 ■ the Indian 101ms alulu dr.--.d in .. .. .dpii-^ knile, 

Iratk wc had juai mine down. the rest of us urn run uw.ij Hime In- is 1 i.ut kltn^ 




to see what a kind old lady Mrs. Elderly is to sit 
still and wait Tor him." 
" Oh, you heartless man I" cried the two ladies. 
' I know," said he, "it looks so ; but she hates 

among the loose stones and our hands grasping 
the stunted cedars before us, when, from the 
vicinity of the lady we had left behind us, [here 
came a screech rolling up the hill that would have 

this car so badly thai I guess a wild Indian, in | passed for a prize war-whoop in any Indian battle, 
comparison, will look very tame to her." A moment after, it seemed strange that we had 

" Come on !" said he, a moment later, assisting heard nothing else. 
Miss l~ox from that cushion less Car-seat. How . The screaming ones among our four and a half 


easy a hard bench becomes when occupied for the 
fun of it only ! 

And up the barren, brown hill wc four folks 
and a bdy started, sans Indians and moss agates. 
But our passenger of the staying qualities sat 
motionless upon the rock, with her " face to the 
foe;" that is, she sat and eyed that hand-car as if 
she "wished it were in Pontile." 

We had been off the car five minutes, perhaps, 
k and were hall-way up the hill, our toes tucked 

gave involuntary echo, feeble, but theii best. 
They were sure that Indians, anacondas, or gigan- 
tic vultures were about to take supper with our 
friend, Mrs. Elderly; that is, she'd be the supper 
and they'd do the eating. Even lightning' was 
not wholly absent from our hasty conclusions. 

And, in fact, lightning had struck her, Juut not 
hard enough to kill. At first turn uf/my eyes 
over my shoulder, there she sat upoai the rock, 
tight as a huge lichen. That onj/scream had 



exhausted her, and she was temporarily calm, — 

for the moment cured of fidgets. 

Having accomplished a face about without 

rolling down the hill, in full view of the disaster 

we stood and laughed, l'eople or. excursions are 

expected to laugh at every occurrence ; and they 

generally come up to this expectation. Mrs. 

Elderly had really witnessed 

a splendid bit of excursion fun 

which the others of us had half- 
missed, only she didn't have 

the knack of enjoying it sud- 
denly and all at once. Fun 

came to her by evolution from 

alarm; at first she was badly 

frightened. Whatever event bad 

hand-car in it was calculated to 

disturb her nerves, 

I said we laughed. Yes; so 

we did. At what? Why, the 

glimpse ol something about the 

size of a yoke of oxen hawing 

and geiing through the air 

twenty feet above the railroad 

track! Hut it wasn't a yoke of 


As the first screech left our 

ears, in came that of a locomo- 
tive, and those oxen of our 

fancy were half-hidden in heavy 

smoke. 1'ell-mell, quick as flash, 

into sight and out again, flew 

the lightning express train from 

the East! And the object in 

air that suggested flying oxen 

never chewed its cud; it was 

an elevated hand car; in short, 

our pet hand-car, — Mrs. El- 

derly's haled hand-car. Tired 

of being ridden, il was about 

to take a ride. 

Seven minutes, to a second, 
had elapsed since we had brought the car to a halt 
a short distance west from the curved cut behind 
the hill, as unconscious of danger as we were ici.k- 
less of it. So closely and like the stealthy panther 
had the train pursued us, till out of its covert ol the 
cut it sprang, and, as if enraged at loss of belter 
victims, it thrust its nose beneath the handcar and 
tossed it with a twist above its smoke-stack. There 
had been no time to whistle "Take care !" there 

was neither time nor power to stop; hence the 

Ordinarily, men shudder to find they have missed 
death only by so thin a shaving of time as seven 
minutes! Yet, in spite of the rule, the laughter 
mania seemed to rest on us. And, barring our 
narrow escape, the situation was comical. Even 

the luiiii-L 

iclcd ii 

ind ii 


e fully, 

pileol t 
of going to pieces and living off to the 
struck, it rose up into the air quite 
Mrs. Elderly told us, considering t 
making its first perpendicular trip in air, and that 
il had behaved so naughtily (as she thought) on 
laud. And as it had shot up, the locomotive had 
shot ahead, and we on the hillside had turned just 



side up, but possibly broken, on the tender heaped 
with coal. 

As the train ran off with our toy on its back, it 
uttered not a " Thank you ;" but rather, through 
the lifting smoke, I thought I detected a tickled 
smile on the face of the engineer; and the part- 
ing scream of the locomotive seemed to say, 
"Serves you right! You must always expect 
trouble when you get ahead of lightning !" 

No time-table had been given us to run our 
hand-car by; and on that Sunday the light- 
ning express was trying to run without one, too. 
And by thus foolishly following our aldermanic 
example it had come near to making an example 
of us. The habit of the road was to have its fast 
trains keep up with the "end of the track," which 
galloped along a mile or more per day, whence 
travelers took the old overland stages for Salt 
Lake and more western points, till they met the 
equally agile "end of the track" on the Central 
Pacific, then pushing up the western acclivity of 
the continent. 

The train that ran behind time and our hand- 
car had telegraphed from Cheyenne to Sherman 
to clear the track, as it would not stop there that 
day. But the pleasure party didn't know of that 
order, and were too thoughtless to ask questions ; 
the railway men didn't see us start off; and the 
result was that nobody knew of our danger till, 
fifteen minutes later, that terrific lightning on 
wheels came tearing through Sherman and had 
doubled its speed down the hill behind us ! 

Then horrified friends thought of us and felt us 
lost, all in one breath. General merriment gave 
way to general mourning. 

"Conductor," said friends, who were sad while 
we were gay, "there is a hand-car load of our 
party only a few moments in advance of that 

"Dead I" In that one word he rendered his 
comfortless verdict. 

But he kindly manned another hand-car with 
two brakemen (the husband of Mrs. Elderly 
accompanying them) to go and pick up such 
proofs as they could find of our former existence. 
He would hold his train, too, till this hospital car 
could be heard from, though he had intended to 
pull out as soon as the express passed. 

While kind friends thus arranged to look for us 
with microscopes, we enjoyed the situation hilar- 
iously. We seemed conscious that a huge joke 

had been cracked between that locomotive and 
our hand-car; but we were not sufficiently calm to 
see that we were the victims of it. Even staid 
Mrs. Elderly met with a sudden change of feel- 
ings, and fell fully into the spirit of an excursion. 
She stood erect on the top of the big rock where 
she had been sitting, and, taking off her bonnet, 
swung it round and round her head and cheered 
lustily. Not one of us took thought of Indians. 

When Mrs. Elderly saw us coming to her from 
the hill, she twirled her bonnet anew and laughed 
like the rest of us. We persuaded her to sit down 
and take breath. We didn't know but fidgets 
had run into some worse mental disorder. But 
she seemed perfectly lucid when quiet. 

"What is the matter?" said I. 

" Nothing," said she; "it's gone." 

"Gone? What's gone?" 

"The matter." 

"Which way did it go?" 

"Went West." 

" How did it go?" 

"On the train." 

"What did it look like?" 

" Like a hand -car." 

" Sure enough !" I assented, with clear convic- 
tion that there was nothing the matter with Mrs. 
Elderly. "But why did you laugh so?" I 

" Well," said she, drawing a good long breath, 
" 1 was just tickled almost to death to see that 
good-for-nothing old truck of a hand-car that 
worried me almost to death piled up on that train 
so neatly and carried clean out of my sight !" 

"But what made you scream so at first?" I 

"Oh," said she, "that was when the engine 
first dashed out of the cut, before I saw what a 
good friend of mine it was going to be." 

And then we all laughed to see her at last really 
enjoying the excursion. To afford her pleasure 
we felt willing to sacrifice almost any number of 
the railway company's hand-cars. 

" How," asked Mr. D , " will you get back 

to Sherman?" 

"I don't know," said she, "and don't care 
much ; same way you will, I suppose. I shall 
keep my word, anyhow, and not. go back on that 
old hand-car." 

We all finally concluded that we were sure to 
be sent for ; and then we sat down near the track 


?, .... ^ , . ^ - : , 
< -v*v #■ til-. wk 34ei 


a . will i- i *i% ; 

' ' i^iSi I 

n ■ # till 

; Nlar 6HEIMAS. 



and had another laugh, — a sauce almost always in 
order on an excursion. 

We had sat there perhaps ten minutes, jolly in 
spite of adversity, when clattering around the 
eastward curve into full view came (he mate to 
our departed car. On catching sight of m the 
brakemen looked a good deal more astonished 
than we did, and not half so good-natured. They 
had come out to see a tragedy, and found only a 
farce. But the husband of our nervous matron 
was so overjoyed at 
sight of h'is better-half, 
safe and sound, that he 
leaped from the car be- 
fore it fully stopped, 
spraining his ankle and 
opening a pocket in the 
knee of his pantaloons. 
So he who had left 
Sherman with funereal 
feelings went back a 
worse wreck than we 
who were thought dead. 

The brakemen told us 
we had wandered five 
miles away ; yet we had 
made the run in fifteen 
minutes! The return, 
upgrade and the load 
heavy, consumed an 
hour. This time Mrs. 
Elderly took a back 
seat beside her lame 1 
scold a bit. The four able-bodied men walked, 
pushed, and rode by turns. 

Just at sunset, more tired than hurt, and the 

jsband, and she didn't 

men coatless, we puffed up to the little depot in 
the pass. As the words "AH right" went round, 
a long breath of relief was drawn, as though all 
had been holding their breath for an hour and a 
half. Joy succeeded sorrow. But it was not 
hilarious joy j it was joy expressed in praise and 
gratitude to God that we were safe, and that our 
conversion of his day into a sporting day had net 
been followed by serious calamity to some of us. 
Even the conductor, a few moments later, called 
"All aboard I" in a 
solemn tone. All laugh- 
ter was hushed during 
(hat evening. Even the 
landscape, bathed in the 
tender light of the new 
moon half-way up the 
sky, added new calm to 
our hushed spirits. And 
as the train moved 
gladly homeward, and 
we "monuments of 
mercy" had detailed our 
adventure over and over 
again, those good, con- 
sistent women who had 
tarried at the station all 
the day struck up; 
" Praise God from whom nil 
blessings flow I" 
Even those who had 
been rudest by daylight 
joined at twilight in this and other sacred songs. 
The danger we had passed seemed to leave a 
practical sermon in its wake that made the even- 
ing hours of that Sabbath its best. 


Far from [lie vain and giddy whirl 
Of Fashion's centre Uandu a cut ; 

Naught but the brooklet's soothing purlj 
And bird-song haunt* the spot, ; 

Save when the happy household hand 
At tiumc's pure altar meet tr> praise, 

An.) to the Father, hand in hand. 

The it 

,r of theil 

No shrine to Mammon here is reare 

The lust for power is all uiiltnnwi 
Itul Wisdom's counsel is revered, 

Her prcctini) gifts ihey own. 
The night of rest comes sweetly do* 

Soft as a floating leather falls; 
Sweet peace and sleep their ( 

Till the clear morning calls. 
O tpiict shades! () blest ! 

How beautilul a home is here I 
Love makes its humble walls rtpleti 

With constant grace ami cheer. 




By Paul Pastnor. 

All day long, at the mouth of Lamville, in the marshes, 
Sportsmen were firing, and over the amber- hued water 
Echoes returned with a crying and beating excitement. 
Flocks of wild duck came and went, ever whistling and 

Crackled the sedges as through them went stealthily creep- 
Slim, dripping dogs, with torn lips and eyes bloodshot, 
Seeking the birds that had fluttered away from the fowler. 
Oft from his long, painful posture of stooping and watching 
A sportsman would rise in the rushes and stand like an 

oak-bole, * 

Rejoicing in rest that poured down like a torrent and bathed 

Then into an ambush retreat, like a monk doing penance. 

October's brief sun had descended the hollow of heaven, 

And darkness came on ere the sound of the shooting was 

And groups of tired sportsmen and dogs from the marshes 

Wended their way through the dusk toward the bridge and 
the highway. 

At the door of the toll-house stood Lora, and, gazing to east 

Saw the bright sparks from the pipes of the hunters wind- 

Scattering stars in the white, fragrant smoke-clouds behind 

Then in the Bay of the Half- Moon, that lay to the west- 

Saw she the spars and the hull of a catamaran 

Swathed in a garment of gloom, with a single star-button 

Up at the neck of the mast, clasping shadow ami shadow ! 

" Whose can it be?" wondered Lora; and Mraightway her 
dark eyes 

Seemed to enlarge, and to gather the last rays of twilight. 

" Some one, perhaps from the city has come for a day's 

And anchored his boat on this side, where the water is 

All things were silent : the tall mast nodded in slumber; 

There were no wheels on the dike, nor the step of a foot- 

Slowly then Lora re-entered the house of her father, 

Closed the dark door — and instant night manikri the inland. 

Spattered with blood, and trodden, and fog-wrapt, and chilly, 

Slept the desolate wastes of the sedge at the mouth of the 

The flutter of sore-wounded duck, and the plaint of the 

The sough of the wind through the rushes, the plash of the 

Stirred the black air like the dolorous murmurs of Hades. 
Suddenly sprang from the marshes a current of splendor, 
As though a stalk of the sedge had leaped up like a rocket. 
And o'er the wild, lonesome stretches of bog-land there 

A heavy explosion, a dominant soleness of sound. 
Lo ! yon stands a sportsman, a moment illumed as he listens, 
Grasping the brown, empty barrels with fingers that tremble, 
And holding his breath till the swift-speeding sound strikes 

the island, 
And bids airy echo return through the darkness to guide 

Lost in the treacherous bog ? and chill is the night wind ! 
No place to rest him, and only the tufts of the sedges 
Bridging the treacherous pits that lie thick in his pathway ! 

Hark ! — 'tis a rifle's reply, o'er the wilderness screaming! 
Yonder the glare of a signal -fire wavering skyward ! 
Almost, it seemed to the wanderer, he could distinguish 
The black, giant forms of his comrades, as often they fed it, 
Or wrestled together with gnarled cedar-roots in the fore- 
Earnestly then did he press toward the fnr-shining l>eacon, 
Sinking again and again into terrible ooze-holes; 
Raising a foot to advance, and yet scarcely foreseeing 
Where he should set it; with hunger and weariness dizzy, 
Still he plunged on, lest the blaze should grow fainter and 

Laugh in a swirl of derision, and sink into embers. 

Meanwhile the Bay of the Half- Moon, reflecting the watch- 

Clung on the hip of the island like scimitar splendid. 

The boats of the catamaran were tossing and ringing, 

As the long swells from mid- water broke shaqdy against 

Down sank the dim, clouded moon in the I;ip of the moun- 

Then the stars laughed, and the fire on the beach flamed 
more redly. 

Close to the blaze, in dull silence, two sportsmen were 

And from their feet and their ankles rose white thrends of 
vapor ; 

Wearily rested their head* on their palms, and their ell>ows 

Leaned on the cobble, and suffered the sharp stones to bruise 

Southward their faces were turned, peering into the dark- 
ness ; 

Southward, where lay the fair city, the home of their parents. 

Drearily pictured they then the alarm of the loved ones, — 



Messengers flying at midnight, and lights in the windows; 
Also the woe of the morning, the calm, restful Sabbath, 
Bringing no news of the young men, the pride of their 

Thus as they talked, the lost one came softly upon them, 
Cast himself down in the midst between comrade and com- 
Spake not, but lay gazing wearily into the firelight. 
Slow sank the blaze into embers, and then into ashes, 
Ere they began to talk soberly one to another. ■ 

11 Nay, I could scarce steer aright in this all-wrapping dark- | 



Said he who lay in the midst (for the bridged boats were 
his) ; 

" Besides, I am bitterly tired, and fainting with hunger." 

Even as he spoke, from the toll-house a glimmer of lamp- I 

Fell on the shore, and as suddenly vanished in darkness. 

•• Yonder is food !" cried Luke Gleason, the eldest, upstart- 

"Why should we famish, with farmer's good larder so near 

Farmer Laroix was just slipping the bolt in its socket, 
When there resounded the tap of a hand against his hand, 
Also he heard hollow voices communing together. 
Straightway he opened the door and confronted the young 

men : 
Pallid they were, and disordered in dress and in feature, 
Damp %rere their garments, and covered with slime from the 

" Sir," said the eldest, respectfully greeting the farmer, 
" Night has o'eriaken us far from our homes in the city; 
Weary and famished wc arc, and the night-damp has chilled 

us. , 

Can you provide us with food ? We have money to pay ; 


Sternly the old man looked on them, nor deigned to make 

answer ; 
Grave was he always, and slow of address to a stranger. 
But from the brightness behind him, ablush with compassion, \ 
Glided a beautiful girl to the side of her fathcF, 
Laid her soft hand on his sleeve with significant pressure. 
Meanwhile she modestly spake to the young men before 

her: — 
" Come in, and sit by the hearth-fire; our father is willing, 
For an abundance of food yet remains from the supper." 
Then with her hand still caressing the arm of her father 
Led she him back to his seat in the cosiest corner ; 
Afterward seated the strangers beside the warm fireplace, 
Blushed at their thanks, and hastened away to the kitchen. 
Meanwhile the children drew round, flocking out o( the 

shadows ; 
Beautiful children they were, and of lineage taintless. 
Pure blood of France coursed their veins like a river of i 

Liquid-eyed girls, with cheeks red as the grass-hidden 


Dark, princely boys, like young noblemen playing the 

Now the door opens, and Lora, the eldest and fairest, 

Enters and stands with the children. How charming her 

In the dim light, half-surrounded by gipsy-brown faces ! 

" Supper is ready," she said, in a voice soft and modest ; 

" Follow me, please." The young men rose up, then, and 

Her eagerly into the low, dusky space of the kitchen. 

There were huge dishes that steamed with a wholesome 
provision ; 

Over the table their cloud and aroma were floating, 

Sweeter than spice- laden breezes, or breath of deep gardens 

Unto the sportsmen. They, when they had taken their 

Spake not a word, nor looked up, but ate deeply, in silence, 

As on a slope fresh and fragrant, and kissed by the morn- 

Browses an ox, with Iris dew-dripping face in the clover! 

Lora remained in the room, at a distance, to serve them, 
If they should need aught replenished. Her mother, more 

Glided away, and returned to her husband and children. 
Still as a star from ten myriad falling, she vanished, 
Light as a leaf that steals down through the boughs of an 


Soon as their hunger and thirst were appeased by the good 

Frequently from the young men to the maid in the shadow 

Slipped the still arrows, the glances of mute admiration. 

Especially earnest the gaze of the handsome Luke Gleason, 

As, leaning his arm on the table, in seeming abstraction, 

Through his white fingers he peered at the toll-keepei's 

Marveling much at the billowy poise of her shoulders; 

Her neck, round and ripe, and half-hid in her clustering 
tresses ; 

Her face, like an oval drop pressed from the cheek of a 
peach ! 

"Face of a fable!" he murmured — "'twill fade with dis- 

I see it through dusk-light and fancy, and bathe it with 

Then, hastily rising, the maiden stepped out of the shadow. 
"If )ou need nothing," she falteied, with down-drooping 

eye 1 ills 
" I will return to my mother, and unto the children." 
Slowly she entered the doorway, still waiting before them, 
If they, perchance, should recall her for some service Lick- 
Hut they spake not, and the maiden went gracefully from 

Raising her eyes, as she vanished, and meeting Luke 

Gleason's : 
Up to her lids surged the blushes, and Gleason perceived 
them ! 



Midnight had passed, and the south wind was steadily 

Over Colchester Reef, and straight from the light-house. 
Nevertheless, in the eye of the glimmering beacon 
Bounded the catamaran, from black billow to billow. 
Cheerfully chatted the comrades, and, nestling together 
Under the sail, they kept watch of the stars of the water, — 
Bright beacon-lights on the points and the islands around 


" We shall be home ere the dawn breaks !" cried he who 

was steering. 
" Never so staunchly my lady dashed over the billows : 
See how the lights on Isle Grand kiss the rim of the water!" 
Thereupon rose on his elbow Luke Gleason, and leeward 
Gazed with intentness. But now there were stars in the offing, 
Ami the window of Lora, perchance, was a window of 

heaven ! 

( To be continued.) 


Of the vast amount written on Mr. Tennyson's 
poetry, but a small portion has been devoted to 
serious analytical criticism. Professor Wilson's 
attack ("Blackwood's Magazine," vol. xxxi.), 
full of the boisterous spirits of the writer, was too 
obviously unfair to be taken as a true opinion, 
though there was in it much of real and discern- 
ing literary insight. Lord Houghton's article in 
the "Westminster Review," vol. xxxviii., able 
and admirably written, was yet too much in the 
tone of a discoverer of unknown lands, who thinks 
all is magnificently fair which strikes upon him 
with a sense of newness. This, together with Mr. 
George Brimley's paper, republished in his col- 
lected essays, and an article in the "London 
Review," vol. i., 1835, are perhaps the only sus- 
tained attempts to deal with the real intellectual 
phenomena presented by Mr. Tennyson's works. 

But these all date from a period far away from 
modern readers, and reviewers have for many 
years gazed on the poems as men gazed on the 
sun before spectrum analysis. Able and enthu- 
siastic eulogies have been written from time to 
time in all the leading periodicals as new works 
have appeared ; here and there attempts have been 
made to discover esoteric meanings in plain and 
simple narrative of old chivalric tales; but little 
has been done to understand them as they are, 
and explain them, to show their relation to litera- 
ture, to art, to nature, or to life, to estimate the 
kind and causes of their beauties or defects. 
Reviews have been for the most part one chorus 
of indiscriminate praise. There was a period 
when the Times would at least always essay, if it 
did not compass literary criticism, but the notices 
of Mr. Tennyson's recent poems have been almost 
comic in their abnegation of all a critic's functions. 
That, for instance, on "The Lover's Tale," simply 

quoted as specimens one hundred and thirty-three 
lines of the poem, together with the larger portion 
of the little preface, and the remainder of the 
notice was simply an expansion of the following 
thoughts, if thoughts they can be called : "Piracy 
would be popular, if, as was in this instance the 
case, piracy often enforced publication. This is 
a remarkable poem for a boy of nineteen, but the 
essential characteristics of the boy's style are those 
of the man's." The greater part of other recent 
reviews have been of the same kind, extracts and 
platitudes, extracts for the sake of extracting, not 
as exemplifying a statement or enforcing a posi- 
tion, platitudes in place of thought to save readers 
the trouble of thinking, of which, to do them 
justice, they are rarely desirous. This action of 
the critics in the case of the later poems has only 
accentuated a conviction long growing in our 
mind, that criticism of Tennyson was needed and 
in some respects almost untried, and in the fol- 
lowing pages we shall endeavor to supply the 

Since the greater portion of this article was 
written, now more than a year since, two papers 
have appeared in the " Cornhill" annotating Mr. 
Tennyson as carefully as critic ever edited Greek 
play, and working out in detail a good deal of 
what is here sketched. It has not seemed to us, 
however, that our own broader examination of 
principles with but few details is surperseded by 
those excellent studies, to which we would refer 
all those who wish to verify our own conclusions 
more fully than our space will allow us. 

We need not pause to prove the popularity of 
the works in question. Of course, there have been 
larger sales of single poems. No such rush for 
copies has ever taken place in Tennyson's case as 
in that of Byron or Scott, even when by publish- 



ing a ballad in a magazine a cheap form was 
adopted which placed the poem within the reach 
of all. Perhaps, too, in one given year, now some 
time ago, the works of Martin Farquhar Tupper, 
D.C.L., may have sold a more considerable num- 
ber of copies than were sold in the same year of 
Tennyson, but if so the balance was soon redressed. 
Even evangelical doctrine could not make Tup- 
per's work seem poetry for more than a brief 
season, and the Laureate's poems have reached 
quarters where Byron never and Scott seldom 
came. Wc do not doubt that at this moment 
in England more poetry of Tennyson is known 
by heart, and more could be quoted, than of 
all the other poets in the language fused into 

Some of the causes of this popularity are trivial, 
yet worth a moment's notice. In the first place, 
Tennyson is thoroughly easy. The great poets 
who present the most difficulty are loved by their 
students with a passion often in proportion to the 
difficulty with which they are approached, and 
those students can never for a moment believe 
that the more popular poet is worthy to stand 
beside their own chosen one. iftschylus and Euri- 
pides, Dante and Tasso, Wordsworth and Scott, 
Browning and Tennyson, are instances of the 
contrast we mean ; the first ol each pair is incom- 
parably the higher poet, but the multitude who 
read for relaxation and not for study, for facile 
delight and not for wise counsel, for titillation uf 
fancy, and not for the calm satisfaction of intellect, 
will never believe it, nor are they able to under- 
stand or apprehend it. 

When we say that Tennyson is easy we do not 
mean that there are not here and there passages 
requiring explanation, and which if an annotated 
edition were ever published would lead to contro- 
versy. The unfoldings of a mind so stored with 
literature and science will always present diffi- 
culties to those who are less educated than the 
writer. So long as "In Memoriam" is read 
people will ask, Who "sings to one clear harp in 
divers tones, that men may rise on stepping- 
stones of their dead selves to higher things"? 
What is the meaning of •' Before the crimson- 
circled star had fallen into her father's grave"? 
So long as they read the early poems, and have 
not read Dante, they will fail to understand the 
words in ••The Vision of Sin," "God made him- 
self an awful rose of dawn." But beyond the 

difficulty of allusion or quotation there is little 
difficulty of idea, and none, or almonst none, of 
diction. The words, and this is no light praise, 
follow each other in their natural prose sequence ; 
there is no effort or straining after metre or 
rhyme ; the words are the best suited to express 
the meaning whether considered as poetry or 
as prose. 

We open the volume at hand absolutely at 
random and read : 


Lying, robed in snowy white 
That loosely Hew to left and right — 
The leaves upon her falling light — 
Through the noises of the night 

She floated down to Camelot : 
And as the boat-head wound along 
The willowy hills and fields among 
They heard her singing her Ia^t song, 

The i^idy of Shalott." 

Now, if dismissing for a moment all sense of 
the assonance of rhyme, we would write this into 
prose, we shall find that only two changes are 
possible; we should read " flew loosely" instead 
of '• loosely flew," and place the word "among" 
at the beginning instead of the end of the 

Again, opening the volume equally at random, 
we find the arras on the walls of the chambers in 
•' The Palace of Art" showed, one, 

44 the reaper* at their sultry toil. 
In front they liouiid the *heave>. Behind 
Were realm* of upland, prodigal in oil, 
And hoary to the wind. 

And one a foreground black, with stoue» and slags, 

Beyond, a line of heights, and higher 
All barred with long white eluud the scornful ciag>, 

And highest, snow and hie. 

And one, an English home - gray twilight poured 

On dewy pastures, dewy trees, 
Softer than sleep- -all things in order stored, 

A haunt of ancient peace." 

In this passage the only words which could be 
transposed are the third line of the second stanza, 
which might in prose read better, |; the scornlul 
crags all barred with long white cloud," which, il 
the rhyme be of no importance, is an equally good 
line. Now take a passage in '• Ulysses," where 
the question is in no degree complicated by as- 
sonance, and we find that no change at all is 
needed : 



" You and I are old ; 
Old age hath yet his honor and his toil ; 
Death closes all : but something ere the end, 
Some work of noble note, may yet be done, 
Not unbecoming men that strove with gods. 
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks : 
The long day wanes : the slow moon climbs: the deep 
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, 
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world. 
Push off, and sitting well in order smite 
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds 
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths 
Of all the western stars, until I die." 

If the same test be applied to the works of 
almost any other poet, we shall find a very different 
result. Take Mr. Browning in a passage also 
chosen by the simple test of opening the volume 
anywhere : 

" Fear death ? — to feel the fog in my throat, 

The mist in mv face, 
When the snows begin, and the blasts denote 

I am ncaring the place, 
The power of the night, the press of the storm, 

The post of the foe ; 
Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form, 

Yet the strong man must go ; 
For the journey is done and the summit attained, 

And the barriers fall, 
Though a battle's to tight ere the guerdon be gained, 

The reward of it all." 

To put this highly elliptical passage into prose 
would need no mere transposition of words, but a 
paraphrase; it requires and repays study, but the 
students are to the readers of poetry, as, perhaps, 
one in a hundred. 

The only other passage we will here quote shall 
be Mr. Matthew Arnold's finest sonnet, which 
better than any other will exemplify the difference 
between the poet who writes for scholars only, 
and him who, indeed, delights scholars, but can 
be understood at a glance by all : 

" So far a* I concievc the world's rebuke 
To him addressed, who would recast her new, 
Not from herself her fame of strength she took, 
But from his weakness, who would work her rue. 
■Behold!' she cries, 'so many rages lulled, 
So many fiery efforts quite cooled down ! 
Look, how so many spirits, long undullcd, 
After short commerce with me. fear my frown ! 
Thou, too, when thou against my crimes would cry, 
Let thy foreboded homage check thy tongue!' 
The world speaks well : yet might her foe reply, 
* Are wills so weak ? Then let not mine wait long. 
Hast thou so rare a poison ? Let me be 
Keener to slay thee, lest thou poison me I' " 

Vol. XVI.— 8. 


We have taken modern poets only for purpose 
of comparison, and but a few instances; but the 
test is one easily applied, and in most cases will 
be applied with the same result. 

Another great reason of Tennyson's popularity 
is the homely, we may even say commonplace, 
character of his subjects, within the comprehen- 
sion of all. They rarely quicken the pulses or 
stimulate the brain, and therefore suit the average 
English mind. De Musset's " On tic badine pas 
avec P amour* % will always find more readers than 
Victor Hugo's " Marion Delorme," " Romeo and 
Juliet" than "King Lear." However pathetic 
are de Musset's play and the graceful tragedy of 
Shakspere's youth, they do not stir the deep of 
human souls, or open the pit of fiery hell which 
lies deep in the central heart of each great nature, 
as in the heart of our mother, the earth. Take 
the whole of Tennyson's poems in the earlier 
volumes, and save, perhaps, "Fatima," and "The 
Sisters," there are no poems which deal with any 
violent or disturbing manifestation of passion. 
The wail of CEnone and the plaint of Iphigenia 
are as decorous as if sobbed out in a Belgravian 
drawing-room, while they are studiously draped 
and surrounded so as to remind us of nothing in 
common with ourselves. It is quite otherwise 
with Shakspere's grand anachronisms, in which 
his men and women are not of any age, but of all 
time. And in those poems which seem exceptional 
" Fat i ma's" sensations have in them no mind; 
they are wholly physical and animal. The same 
criticism will apply to "Lucretius;" the physical 
troubles of lust, not the noble sufferings of love 
wronged or unrequited, are the subject of the 
poem. In "The Sisters" the tragedy of "three 
times I stabbed him through and through" is 
stilled into peace by the lines: 

" I curled and combed his comely head, 
He looked so grand when he was dead," 

quite another treatment and in quite another 
spirit to that in which Keats's " Isabella" dealt 
with her terrible treasure in the pot of basil. 

Nor when Mr. Tennyson would "tell a tale of 
chivalry" do his notes ring like those of trumpets 
to set the blood dancing in the veins. He does 
not seem to get beyond the plume and the glan- 
cing of the spear-heads. He speaks of battle, but 
"all the war is rolled in smoke," and we see 
nothing; his combats are as unreal in the "Idylls 




of the King" as they are in "The Princess, 
when the poor little prince, exerting all his force, 
felt his veins 

" Stretch with fierce heat, a moment hand to hand, 
And horse to horse, and sword to sword we hung, 
Till I struck out and shouted ; the blade glanced, 
/ did but shear a feather" 

Just so, and the Lancelots and Arthurs, though 
we are told they were wounded, and groaned, and 
swooned, or mowed their enemies before them, 
still leave on us the impression that they were but 
shearing feathers ; it is all like a pageant of battle 
on the stage ; there are sparks in plenty flashing 
from the swords; the combatants tumble about, 
and we sit unmoved, knowing it all unreal. 

A third cause of Mr. Tennyson's popularity is 
his freedom from coarse expressions; it is much to 
have an author as decorous as Cowper or Keble, 
while far more varied. There is scarce a word in 
all his writings at which the most fastidious can 
take exception. And the ordinary reader cares 
about words. It is true that the things are not 
always as harmless. Fatima, Lucretius, Merlin, 
and Vivien are not good reading for girls, neither 
is the confusion in "Queen Mary" between dropsy 
and pregnancy ; but they are not understood by 
the majority, and, taken all together, the poems 
are good and wholesome reading, from which we 
can only rise pleased and improved. 

Within the limits of his power Mr. Tennyson's 
workmanship is perfect, and in the long run good 
work is sure to tell. We shall now examine the 
limits and the workmanship, having enumerated 
the main causes of the popularity of these poems : 
their easiness, homeliness, decency of diction, and 
excellence of work. 

When we consider the limits within which Mr. 
Tennyson restricts himself, we are inclined to 
think that few save careful students are aware how 
very considerable a portion of his poems is delib- 
erate rendering into pure melodious verse what 
has already existed in another form. All poets of 
course avail themselves of the heritage of the past, 
and there are few poems of any length which do 
not owe their origin to some story, event, or 
other circumstance outside of their author's brain. 
Not to dwell on Shakspere's work and that of 
other dramatists or playwrights, and on story- 
tellers, as Boccaccio and Bandello, we may in- 
stance the use of older material by Mr. Brown- 
ing in his " Dramatic Idylls." It was at once 

pointed out by many critics, that "Halbert ai 
Hob" is the expansion of a few lines in Aristotle 
"Ethics," and the first incident of "Ivan Ivan< 
vitch" is a story -told wherever Russian life an 
Russian wolves are named. The true artist h; 
seized the principle only of Aristotle's story, an 
given it a special English and Puritan interest 
while in the sequel to the poor mother's tale h 
rises to the rank of the creator, the original poeti 
genius. But the restraint which Mr. Tennysoi 
has laid on himself is different both in kind anc 
in degree. In very many instances he has noi 
taken an incident and expanded it, but taken the 
incident already described and expanded to its 
fullest extent, and by a touch here and there has 
transmuted the whole into a living poem. So an 
artist hand will arrange the mass of flowers and 
green foliage which the gardener brings from 
conservatory or parterre into the perfect bouquet 
for bridal or for ball. 

How largely this has been done in the case of 
the "Idylls of the King" is of course known to 
all, yet a few familiar passages will best exhibt 
Mr. Tennyson's peculiar mode of working. Our 
first instance shall be from "Gareth and Lynette," 
and the text so fairly embroidered by him is from 
"Popular Romances of the Middle Ages," in 
which many of the old stories can be consulted 
most conveniently. 

"King Arthur was holding high festival when 
there came into the hall two men on whose 
shoulders there leaned the fairest and goodliest 
youth that ever man saw, as though of himself he 
could not walk. When they reached the dais, the 
youth prayed God to bless the king and all his 
fair fellowship of the Round Table. ' And now I 
pray thee, grant me three gifts, which I seek not 
against reason : the one of these I will ask thee 
now, and the other two when twelve months have 
come round.' 'Ask,' said Arthur, 'and ye shall 
have your asking.' 'Then,' answered the youth, 
' I will that ye give me meat and drink for a year.' 
And though the king bade him ask something 
better, yet would he not : and Arthur said, ' Meat 
and drink enough shalt thou have; for that I 
never stinted to friend or foe. But what is thy 
name?' 'That I cannot tell,' said the youth. 
'Strange,' said the king, 'that thou shouldest not 
know thy name, and thou the goodliest youth that 
ever mine eyes have seen.' Then the king gave 
him in charge to Sir Kay, who scorned him 



because he had asked so mean a gift. ' Since he 
has no name/ said Sir Kay, 'I will call him 
Pretty-hands, and into the kitchen shall he go and 
there have fat brose, so that at the year's end he 
shall be fat as a pork hog.' " 
Compare with this : 

< •< 

Last, Gareth leaning both hands heavily 
Down on the shoulders of the twain, his men, 
Approached between them toward the king, and asked, 
'A boon, Sir King* (bis voice was all ashamed), 
' For see ye not how weak and hunger worn 
I seem — leaning on these ? grant me to serve 
For meat and drink among thy kitchen-knaves 
A twelvemonth and a day, nor seek my name. 
Hereafter I will fight.' 

"To him the king, 
' A goodly youth and worth a goodlier boon ! 
Bnt so thou wilt no goodlier, then must Kay, 
The master of the meats and drinks, be thine.' 
He rose and past ; then Kay, a man of mien 
Wan-sallow as the plant that feels itself 
Root-bitten by white lichen, 

" ' Lo ye now ! 
This fellow hath broken from some abbey, where. 
God wot, he had not beef and brewis enow, 
However that might change ! but an he work, 
Like any pigeon will I cram his crop, 
And sleeker shall he shine than any hog.' " 

The words "I will call him Pretty-hands," and 
other touches in the prose, are not omitted, but 
given a few lines further on in the poem. 

Compare again the following passages on the 
Holy Grail : 

" In the evening, when they had prayed in the 
great minster, and as the knights sat each in his 
own place, they heard cracking of thunder as 
though the hall would be riven through ; and in 
the midst of the crashing and darkness a light 
entered, clearer by seven times than ever they 
saw day, and all were alighted of the Grace of the 
Holy Ghost : and as each knight looked on his 
fellows, behold all were fairer than any on whom 
their eyes had ever rested yet. But all sate dumb, 
and in the still silence came the Holy Grail, 
covered with white samite, but none might see it, 
or the hand which bare it ; and with it came all 
sweet odors, and each knight had such food and 
drink as he loved best in the world ; and then 
the holy vessel was borne away, they knew not 
whither. Then were their tongues loosed, and 
the king gave thanks for that which they had 
But Sir Gawaine said : ' We have had this 

day all that our hearts would wish, but we 
might not see the Holy Grail, so needfully was 
it covered; and therefore now I vow with the 
morrow's morn to depart hence in quest of the 
holy vessel, and never to return until I have seen 
it more openly ; and if I may not achieve this I 
shall come back as one that may not win against 
the will of God."' 

" • And all at once, as there we sat, we heard 
A cracking and a riving of the roofs, 
And rending, and a blast, and overhead 
Thunder, and in the thunder was a cry. 
And in the blast there smote along the hall 
A beam of light seven time> more clear than day; 
And down the long beam stole the Holy Grail 
AH over covered with a luminous cloud, 
And none might see who bare it, and it past. 
But ever)' knight beheld his fellow's face 
As in a glory, and all the knights arose, 
And staring each at other like dumb men 
Stood, till I found a voice and sware a vow, 
I swarc a vow before them all, that I, 
Because 1 had not seen the Grail, would ride 
A twelvemonth and a clay in quest of it, 
Until I found and saw it.' " 

These are not isolated or in any degree excep- 
tional passages; the whole of the "Idylls of the 
King" are in the same way translated from the 
prose Arthurian legends, in great part from the 
" Mort d'Anhur," by Sir Thomas Malory, from 
Lady Charlotte Schretber's version of the " Mabi- 
nogion," and. in part from less-known sources. 
Touches are brought in from other books, and it 
is a curious instance of the range and versatility 
of Mr. Tennyson's reading, and of his retentive 
memory, that he has in the same way adapted 
passages from Crofton Croker's " Irish Legends" 
and fitted them into the Arthurian story. Thus 
the little maid's account in "Guinevere 11 of the 
gladness of "spirits and men, before the coming 
of the sinful queen," " how the fairies came dash- 
ing down upon a wayside flower," how "down in 
the cellar many bloated things shouldered the 
spigot, straddling on the butts while the wine 
ran," are taken from two of the tales in that ex- 
cellent collection, published in 1825, and no 
doubt the delight of Mr. Tennyson in his youth, 
as it has been of so many young people since. 
The same volume was pressed into the service of 
one of the earlier Idylls, "Walking to the Mail," 
where the story of the farmer who intended chang- 
ing house because of a ghost, but remained when 



he found the ghost meant to go too, is slightly 
altered from the legend of the Cluricaune. 

We have now shown Mr. Tennyson's mode of 
writing when he has a story which pleases him. 
The applications of it are numerous. Thus 
" Dora" is translated from Miss Mitford's "Dora 
Creswcll" in "Our Village," and greatly im- 
proved in the translation. "Enoch Arden" and 
"Aylmcr's Field" were told by a friend to the 
poet, who, struck with their aptitude for versifica- 
tion, requested to have them at length in writing. 
When they were thus supplied, the poetic versions 
were marie as we now have them. Readers who 
are also students may follow up this clue for them- 
selves, and the wider their own reading the more 
will they find that the poet knows more than they 
of the books they know the best. But the fact 
goes even beyond what they will find ; some of 
the poems which seem most spontaneous are not 
so, and, with the true art which conceals art, the 
thoughts of others are made the poet's own. We 
have been told that when the Laureate was at 
Cambridge, a friend of his own age and set, him- 
self well known in literature since those days, 
delivered a speech at the Cambridge Union which 
made at the time a profound impression. But 
few of the enthusiastic boys who heard it could 
have supposed, even in the wildest flights of ad- 
miration, that their orator's thoughts, and many 
of his words, would live as long as the English 
language in the form of the fine stanzas, " You 
ask me why, though ill at ease/' " Of old sat 
Freedom on the heights," and "Love thou thy 

It is needless here to specify how far Mr. Froude 
and Mr. Freeman have respectively contributed 
not only facts but phrases to the dramas of 
"Queen Mary" and "Harold," because here 
the poet is following in the steps of all dramatists, 
and his action has nothing in it which is peculiar 
to himself. 

Another limitation which Mr. Tennyson has 
set to his creative powers is of the same kind, but 
on a smaller scale. It is to be found in the vast 
quantity of translated epithets and sentences to be 
found in his works, where a man of less reading 
and equal imagination would have often preferred 
to invent his own appropriate words. We do not 
of course mean only in such poems as " Lucre- 
tius," little more than a cento from the writings 
of that author, nor of the memories of Homer, so 


abundant in "Ulysses," "TheLotus-Eaters," and 
"CEnone." But "Ulysses," again, is thronged 
with thoughts of Dante, as e.g., Inferno xxvi. 
90-140, and the Dante student will find him at 
every turn, and always happily rendered. Nor are 
classical epithets less well translated : the " black 
pigeon" of Herodotus becomes the "swarthy 
ring-dove;" Horace's corvix antiosa " the many- 
wintered crow;" ad unguem f actus "finished to 
the finger-nail;" trisulca fulmina "the triple 
forks." Under the same head also will come the 
usage of words of other poets, so bravely adopted, 
with no weak fear that so great a genius could be 
dreamed a plagiarist, as, " Love wept and spread 
his sheeny vans for flight," borrowed from Milton 
— "His sail-broad vans he spreads for flight" 
(Paradise Lost, ii 927); or, "The right car is 
filled with dust," from Shakspere's " My liege, 
her ear is stopped with dust" (King John, act iv. 
sc. 2); "Brow bound with burning gold," from 
Shelley — "And thine omnipotence a crown of 
pain, To cling like burning gold round thy dis- 
dissolving brain" ("Prometheus Unbound"); 
" Read .... deep-chested music, and to 
this result," from Keats — "His voice leapt out, 
despite of godlike curb, to this reault" (Hype- 
rion"); "The wild team which beat the twilight 
into flakes of fire," from Marston — "See the 
dapple-gray coursers of the morn beat up the light 
with their bright silver horns" (" Antonius and 
Mellida") ; "Sipt wine from silver praising God," 
from the old proverb, "The cock when he drinks 
praises God," explained by George Herbert 
thus : 

" And as birds drink nnd straight lift up their head. 
So may I sip, and think 
Of better drink 
I may attain to after I am dead." 

A third limitation also is that by which Mr. 
Tennyson restrains his fancy in the creation of 
incident. Here, too, where Dante or Milton, 
where Keats or Shelley would have given a loose 
rein to thought, the more modern poet refrains 
from the making of ideas. There would scarce 
seem any occasion so fitted for it as the visions 
which the sinful soul which built the Palace of 
Art saw when, lest she should fail and perish 
utterly, God plagued her with sore despair. The 
most terrible of all these, when she came unawares 
"on hollow shades enclosing hearts of flame," i* 
borrowed from "Vathek" — the torment which 


Beckford imagined for the lost in the Hall of 
Eblis was that of a heart eternally on fire : 

had ever been done before. There are no delib- 
erate roughnesses before or after passages of sweet 

" Soliman raised his hands toward heaven in j sound, as though to point the contrast ; no aston- 
token of supplication, and the caliph discerned j ishing rhymes as in Browning and his sweet and 
through his bosom, which was transparent as . strong poet- wife ; sound never runs away with 
crystal, his heart enveloped in flames" ("The ! sense as now and then with Shelley; nor does the 
History of the Caliph Vathek," ed. in Bayard i sweetness cloy, as now and then with Keats — the 

series, p. 115); and the image of the soul's 
perplexities is taken from the Book of Wisdom. 

verse flows always melodiously, never straining 
after effect ; each word is the best, and in its true 

But there is no need to multiply instances, each : place. The metre, too, is always the fittest ; it 
student can do so for himself; and the further he j would seem impossible that any poem should ever 
goes in the garden of literature the more will he \ have had another form than the actual one. This 
find that Mr. Tennyson has been before him, and : is a matter which would take long to prove, each 
culled his fairest flowers deliberately, thus restrict- reader must verify it for himself; but if any one 
ing his own creativeness. Greek, Latin, Italian, will compare the earlier and present editions of 
and English appear to be the branches of literature j the poems, he will sec how all the changes made 

have been in the direction of softness and sweet- 
ness ; how a plural word has been changed to a 
singular before s in order to avoid the collision of 
sibilants; how carefully chosen have been the 
dominant letters of the lines, e.g. : 

" So all day long ihc noise of battle rolled." 

" Made noise of bees and breeze from end to end." 

" Strikes 
On a wood and takes and breaks and cracks and splits." 

" I heard the puffed pursuer; at my ear 
Bubbled the nightingale/' 

best known to the poet ; there is little trace of 
French influence on his mind or writings, and 
save one or two possible allusions to the Faust, 
there is no sign whatever of acquaintance with 
the German language or literature. This gives us 
a fourth limitation to the field within which the 
poet has worked, this last perhaps more accidental 
than voluntary and deliberate. 

We have now to see what are Mr. Tennyson's 
relations to his age, and what, within the defined 
limit, he has taught the crowd of eager readers ; 
what it is in which he stands unrivaled in our 
own age. His work may not be all claimed for it 
by enthusiastic girls who thumb their Tennyson i and will feel himself wrapped round with melody 
"Birthday Book" as though its sentences were ' always satisfactory, gently sensuous, but never in 
those of an oracle, or by school-boys who, unable , excess. 

to afford the price of the poems, copy out the As an interpreter of nature, Mr. Tennyson is, 
whole of "Locksley Hall," as did many years : again within his own limits, quite unequaled. 
since the writer of the present notice. But it is I The limits would seem to be those imposed by 
none the less the work of a consummate artist ; of ' shortsightedness, refusing to allow details of a 
an able interpreter of nature and of science, of ' great scene to be grasped by the vision, but inten- 
one who is considered, and perhaps considers ; sifying the grasp of details in all that can be 
himself, to attain to something of prophetic , looked into and examined close at hand. Thus 
strain. ' when any stretch of landscape is named, that 

Mr. Tennyson's handling of words is of quite a j which has attracted the poet has been color and 
different kind from Mr. Browning's, or Shelley's, or 1 sound rather than feature. 

Kcats's. His model in his blank verse is evidently j "One showed an iron coast and angry waves, 

Miiton ; in his lyrics his only rule would seem to j You seemed to hear them climb and fall 

be his own delicate ear. His fastidious taste has J An(1 roar mck-ihwaried under bellowing caves 

preserved him from all temptation to tours de j Bc,,calh tbc will,, y wal1 '" 

force 1 to surprises exciting now and then our i The landscape is vague, the sound is predomi- 
admiration, now and then our anger. There is \ nant. 

nothing half so clever as Browning's " Le Byron \ Again in the picture from " The Palace of Art," 
de nos jours," with its quaint double rhymes, its quoted above, the tawny yellow cornfield against 
metre and rhythm, apart from anything which the gray undersides of the olive-leaves is what has 



struck the poet, and he gives that to us. An eye 
of greater power to see distant objects would have 
given us a flash of color in the reaper's costume, 
but such a surface is not broad enough to be 
noticed by short sight. The reader will find that 
in no distant landscape are details dwelt on as, 
for instance, by Scott when he would describe the 
Trossachs, or Byron when painting the scenes on 
which Childe Harold gazed. 

But it is quite different when a flower or other 
object which can be brought close to the eye is to 
be described. We all remember the delight with 
which the old literary yeoman in "Cranford" 
finds that Tennyson had shown hiniself a keen 
observer from his simile : 

" As black as ashbuds in the front of March." 

So, in like way, the little receptacle of the 
dandelion, with its petals and seeds, has been 
closely marked by the poet, who speaks of "the 
arrowy seeds of the field-flower" itself " all gold," 
and of the tiny targe set with its darts. So, too, 
how "drooping chestnut-buds began to spread 
into the perfect fan;" how wheat examined 
closely is a " phalanx of summer spears/ 1 what 
is "the gloss and hue" of the chestnut, "when 
the husk divides threefold to show the fruit 
within;" how the tiny inhabitants of seaside 
shells push "a golden foot on a fairy horn" 
through the "dim water world." A hundred 
like instances will occur to all students of Mr. 
Tennyson's poems, and will speak to them of one 
who goes through life keenly and minutely observ- 
ant, but sometimes dwelling too much on detail 
to grasp the whole ; not able, as the old proverb 
has it, to see the wood for the trees. 

A close observer of nature must always have 
sympathy with natural science, since that is de- 
pendent on the study and obedience of nature in 
order to control her, and it is easy to see that the 
discoveries and utterances of scientific men have 
always had a great charm for Mr. Tennyson, just 
as the intricacies of the law and subtle psychologi- 
cal study have had for Mr. Browning. But there 
is this difference, that while the latter poet is 
suffused and penetrated with his subject, is for the 
time a lawyer, or follows every tortuous winding 
of the character he analyzes, as a surgeon lays 
bare nerves with his scalpel, the former never 
forgets himself in his subject, but simply and con- 
sciously gives a poetic rendering to some scientific 

phrase which has struck him from outside, son 

fragment of fact rather than a great princip 

Once, indeed, and that in pre-Darwinian daj 

the great dogma of evolution impressed him, at 

he put the inmost kernel of it into four grar 

lines, omitted in later editions of "The Palace < 

Art" : 

" All nature widens upward : evermore 
The simpler essence lower lies, 
More complex is more perfect, owing more 
Discourse, more widely wise." 

The fastidious ear has rejected the rhyme: 
ending with the same syllable "more/* — thougfc 
such is considered even a beauty in French verse, 
— and, in fact, the too dominant sound of o, 
without heed to the rejection of the grand thought 
worth a volume of mere prettiness. 

But he has grasped with exceeding interest 
many physiological facts, such as that one of the 
ossification of the foetal bones, — a gradual process, 
consisting in the change of gristle or membrane 
into bone, about half of which by weight consists 
of phosphate of lime. The capillary blood-vessels 
feed the bones with lime, beginning to do so 
from the time when the first bones, the collar- 
bone and the lower jaw, begin to ossify. This 
becomes, when translated into poetry, the admi- 
rable lines : 

" Before the little ducts began 
To feed thy bones with lime, and ran 
Their course till thou wert also man." 

In the edition of 1833 of -"The Palace of Art" 
we find the marvels of the sky as seen through a 
telescope condensed with equal beauty: 

" Hither, when all the deep unsounded skies 
Shuddered with silent stars, she clomb, 
And as with optic glass her keener eyes 
Pierced through the mystic dome, 

Regions of lucid matter taking forms, 

Brushes of fire, hazy gleams, 
Clusters and beds of worlds, and bee-like swarms 

Of suns and starry streams." 

These are now withdrawn from the poem, but no 
reader need be at a loss to find other instances. 
One still remains in the same poem: 

" Still as while Saturn whirls, his steadfast shade 
Sleeps on his luminous ring." 

On this a great authority says : 
" From the motion of spots occasionally seen 
on Saturn astronomers find that the planet rotates 



on its axis in the short period of ten and a half 
hours, which for a planet so enormous in size may 
justly be termed whirling. His equatorial regions 
are carried round at the rate of twenty-one thou- 
sand miles per hour. But while the planet thus 
whirls swiftly round upon its axis the shadow 
stays at rest upon the luminous rings, just as the 
shadow of a sleeping top remains at rest upon the 
ground. The shadow does indeed creep to and 
fro upon one face of the rings, and then passes to 
the other, but so very slowly (remaining more than 
fourteen years on each face before passing to the 
other) that it ma> justly be described as sleeping." 

" In Memoriam" especially is full of references 
to scientific facts, and so is "The Princess/ 1 in 
which the curious protest against vivisection shows 
how carefully Mr. Tennyson had mastered the 
details of the dissecting-room. 

Theology, as a science, finds no place in these 
poems ; the dogmas of religion have never, as it 
would seem, had any attractions for Mr. Tenny- 
son; a hopeful but vague faith in a future life and 
in a God who will redress the wrongs and explain 
the puzzles of this, is all that can be found for 
spiritual guidance. 

What has been already said about the large 
amount of transcription into poetry of the thoughts 
of others will have prepared the way for the 
assertion that Mr. Tennyson does not possess 
the highest form of creative art. He is in no 
.sense dramatic. His great rival, Mr. Browning, 
has a marvelous power of placing himself in the 
position of his heroes. Bishop Blougram, Sludge, 
Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau, live before us scarce 
less vividly as real persons than do Hamlet or 
Macbeth. It is true they all express themselves 
in the words of Browning, and that those words 
have a marked idiosyncrasy, but the characters 
are defined; there is no confusion of persons, 
nor do we think for a moment that in any of his 
creations the poet is reproducing himself. In 
other words, he is truly dramatic. 

Mr. Tennyson's people stand before us only 
6? h -/palate* There is a picture, but that is all. 
In so far as the speeches in the dramas are trans- 
lations of Mr. Froude or Mr. Freeman, they vary; 
in so far as they are not, they all seem studies of 
the author's self. The hero of "Maud," which 
is a drama in monologue, is in the condition in 
which Pope describes women to be : 

u Most women have no characters at all." 

At best there is a faint suggestion of some things 
which would help us to build up from it and other 
poems some likeness of the poet. We could find 
Mr. Tennyson in his works, but who has found, 
who can find Shakspere in his plays? who can 
find Mr. Browning in his "Dramatic Idylls," in 
his " Men and Women" ? Whatever of dramatic 
art exists in "Queen Mary," "Harold," or the 
"Idylls of the King" is that of Froude or 
Freeman or Malory; beyond it the person- 
ages are mere lay figures moving by machinery. 
The form of the drama is constructed after 
the pattern of Shakspere's plays, and those not 
always the best. " Queen Mary," for instance, 
closely resembles " King Henry VIII." in form, 
and is carefully cast in the mould of that unattrac- 
tive play. In order to be a dramatist it is not 
only necessary to be very free from self-conscious- 
ness and a habit of introspection, but a sense of 
humor is before all things essential. For life is 
humorous, a keen contrast of incongruities, and 
the drama presents these in a condensed form. 
But there is not a good hearty laugh in Mr. 
Tennyson's poems from one end to the other. 
Professor Wilson laughed at him, perhaps, un- 
fairly. Lord Lytton did the same. The poet 
winced, altered his lines, and retorted in verses 
of which he has since grown ashamed; but no 
one has laughed with him. If we divest the 
"Northern Farmers" of their Lincolnshire burr 
we find nothing to raise a smile except, perhaps, 
the one stanza about the sermons to which the 
poor man had so often listened. The would-be 
humor here and tl\ere is only amusing from its 
complete incongruity with the poems and their 
author, and this, it is true, is one element of 

The present has seemed a fitting time in which 
to indicate some of the excellences and defects of 
a foremost poet, because, although Mr. Tennyson 
may, and we trust will, long remain with us, he 
has shown so clearly what he can do in many 
directions, he is not likely to give fresh work 
which can alter any general judgment, so that we 
can examine his work without disturbing elements. 
Whatever he may bring forth of his treasures, new 
and old; whether like "The Lover's Tale," a 
young man's ornate translation of Boccaccio, 
pruned in some degree by mature judgment, or a 
lyric written long ago, and laid by for a time, or 
a rendering of some pages of a modern historian, 



is sure to be read with interest, sympathy, and a ; 
wish to admire. I 

But the notes of introduction blown by admirers j 
when such works appear drown the fainter voices . 
of critics, if indeed these are given any chance. \ 
Some of the poet's more recent efforts having ' 
appeared in a review, they have, to a certain 
extent, been taken out of the reach of criticism. 
Journals have been so hasty to quote that they 
have had no time to examine. In truth, it was 
better so, for the calmer critic can only feel that, 
while Mr. Tennyson's polish of words has become 
less pleasingly artificial, he has in great measure 
lost his very careful observation ; he has, in adopt- j 
ing the ballad form, taken that which requires ! 
" swing" and M go," for which his turn of thought 
most unfits him. j 

To take an instance from each ballad : 

" And a dozen times we shook 'cm off as a dog that shakes 
his ears, 
When he leaps from the water to the land." j 

Now a dog leaps into the water, but he cannot 
leap out of it. Not only is the bank generally , 
higher than the water, but the animal's coat is so 
laden with moisture that he comes out slowly and \ 
with a bedraggled air, as far from a leap as it is 
possible that aught should be. Neither does he | 
then shake his ears. A sort of shiver begins at \ 
the nape of the neck and runs down the whole 
body, which throws the water on all sides, and 
last of all the dog shakes his ears. 

This may seem a little matter, but it is not the 
work of one who is still a close observer. 

In the Lucknow ballad we find the refrain : 

" And ever upon the roofs the banner of England blew." 

To this it may be objected that there was scarce a 
breath of wind during the whole siege of Luck- 
now, and that to any one who knows India the 
cheery fluttering of a banner as in England is 
thoroughly alien to the local color. And how 
does a banner blow? We may search the whole ■ 
of English literature, we shall find only one such , 

use of the words, and that in Mr. Tennyson's own 
line in "The Day Dream" : 

" The hedge broke in ; the banner blew" 

far less objectionable than when used as a refrain, 
lending the word importance through the whole 
of a long and, it must be said, a dull poem. 

We have not analyzed any of the works minutely. 
In regard to the earlier and better poems, this has 
been done fully and excellently by those whose 
articles we named at the outset, especially by the 
writer in the "Corn hill," and we have dwelt more 
on general characteristics than on details. Our 
point has been to account for and to justify in a 
degree Mr. Tennyson's popularity, and to show 
the limits of his enduring fame. He is not one 
of the great world-singers, and will not be placed 
by after-ages among the sublime figures of Homer, 
iEschylus, Dante, Shakspere, Milton, Goethe. 
Nor, when time allows of calm judgment, will he 
stand on the first level among our own great ones. 
If the glories of English poetry can ever be lost, 
the brows of Chaucer, Pope, Byron, Shelley, 
Scott, Keats, will all yet catch the sunlight when 
darkness has fallen on those of the Laureate. But 
for many a year to come, and maybe for many a 
century, wherever the language we now speak is 
spoken or read ; wherever good work short of the 
very highest is prized ; wherever men love the 
music of ordered words, the quiet loveliness of 
English landscape, the calmness, sometimes the- 
commonplace, of our insular life; wherever they 
value a terse interpretation of the aspects of nature 
or scientific facts, a love for what is lovely, and a 
hopeful outlook on the future, will these works 
give delight. They will form the studies for boys 
and girls in the dawn of young feeling and imag- 
ination, afford subjects for young painters, and 
sweet words to ring in our memory as we grow 
old. It it difficult to forecast the day when Alfred 
Tennyson's will not be an honored name, and his 
poems among the treasures of a rich and varied 

Take this for granted, once for all, 
There is neither chance nor fate ; 

And to sit and wait for the sky to fall, 
Is to wait as the foolish wait. 

The laurel longed fur >ou must earn, 
It is not of the things men lend ; 

And though the lesson may be hard to learn, 

The sooner the better, my friend. 
That another's head can have your crown 

Is a judgment all untrue, 
And to drag this man or the other down 

Will not in tnc least raise you ! 

Alice Cary. 




By Major Arthur Griffith. 

" Can I find a lodging in the neighborhood?" 
I asked, hoping he would offer to put me up in his 
own cottage. 

" Not within a dozen miles. " 

" Could not you take me in yourself? Give me 
those two nice room? over the porch." 

"How do you know of them?" he said, eyeing 
me suspiciously. "Anyhow, I can't, and that's 
all to be said." 

"Well, how if I can get leave to live in the house 
itself, would the family object ? They never come 
down, you say, and the place is to let. I might 
write and ask the 'squire." 

"There ain't no 'squire. It's Miss Judith as 
owns the place, and you can't write to her." 

"Then I'll write to her lawyers, or the agent, 
if you'll give me his address." 

An artist, a landscape-painter, who has come 
unexpectedly upon " good stuff," to use the cant 
phrase, is not to be turned aside from his purpose 
by small difficulties. While wandering through 
one of the most northern counties in search of 
subjects for my brush, I had stumbled, quite by 
accident, upon Maxted Manor House, and I was 
resolved to make the most of my discovery. The 
place was a paradise for a painter, — an ancient and 
embattled mansion, lying half-hidden in a wooded 
dell, but moat-encircled and strongly entrenched 
with its stout sixteen-feet-thick walls. It stood 
four-square around an inner courtyard, in which 
grew one or two fine old yew-trees; it had a 
grand banqueting-hall, a chapel, with quaint oak- 
paneled chambers, four angle turrets with spiral 
staircases in stone, and dungeon-like crypts, doubt- 
less often tenanted of yore by luckless prisoners. 
A couple of wings were fully furnished with black 
oak high-backed chairs and curious cabinets ; 
they were hung in tapestry, worth much money, 
representing the sieges of Troy and Jerusalem, 
and seemed comfortable enough ; but the rest of 
the house was a vast solitude, an empty wilderness 
of massive stonework and ancient oak. 

Guided by the caretaker, an illiterate, some- 
what surly old man, who was also gardener, I had 
explored all that was on view within the Manor 
House. From him I had extracted, as though 

they were his favorite back teeth, a few particu- 
lars about the place. No one had lived in it for 
years. Why? The Maxteds did not often come 
north, and they were free to do as they pleased, 
surely? Now it was to be sold? " No, not sold. 
Why should Miss Judith part with the property? 
There had been Maxteds there these hundreds of 
years. ' ' 

"Before the flood," I suggested. 

"Well, why not? It would only depend upon 
which flood ; they had had many floods in those 
parts. But Maxted could not be sold. It must 
go to some one of the same name — there were 
cousins always-*— if Miss Judith didn't marry; but 
that she was certain to do. A proper beauty she 
was, — a pure Maxted, tall and fair and merry 
hearted, she is the living image of that picture 
over there, — it's Lady Dora Maxted." And he 
pointed to a large portrait of a lady in white, 
long, flowing, semi-Orien.tal robes, her face par- 
tially concealed by a gracefully draped veil, which 
gave greater effect to a pair of brilliant brown 
eyes. I was constrained to admit that if the 
present owner of Maxted Manor resembled Lady 
Dora, she must be the possessor of at least one 
beautiful feature. 

I had some difficulty in persuading the old gar- 
dener to give me the address of Miss Maxted's 
agents ; he would only tell me that they were to 
be heard of in Blueborough, the county town. I 
found them out at length, at Blueborough, but 
they positively refused to forward my request to 
occupy the Manor House. Mi>s Maxted did not 
seek a tenant, they said, and would not be pleased 
with them for suggesting the idea. I asked them 
whether I could not apply in person, and was 
told that Miss Maxted did not choose to be dis- 
turbed by business affairs. I was not to be balked 
however, and before I left the agents' office in 
Blueborough, I had ascertained the name of Miss 
Maxted* s lawyers in London. To them I wrote, 
reiterating my request, but giving no reasons; 
presently I received a civilly-worded but very dis- 
tinct refusal. Messrs. Burke and Bingham were 
instructed to say that Miss Maxted had no desire 
to let the Manor House, and that my application 



could not be entertained. I made one last effort; 
I wrote to an old aunt, Mrs. Packenham, who was 
much in the great world, and who knew every- 
body in it worth knowing. I asked her if she 
had ever met Miss Maxted, and if or whether she 
could further my views. Aunt Packenham wrote 
back to say that of course she knew Judith Max- 
ted. The girl was a near neighbor of hers in the 
country — an heiress and a beauty. Her fame was 
widespread ; she was a most charming girl. *' In 
fact," said my aunt, "she would just do for you." 
As my aunt had already proposed some five-and- 
twenty girls as exactly cut out for me, I did not 
put much store* by this, her latest suggestion. 
What was more to the purpose was that my aunt 
had made a point of seeing Miss Maxted, and had 
made her aware of my wish to pay a long visit to 
the Manor House. What followed I had better 
tell in my aunt's words: 

" Miss Maxted shook her head very positively. 
'He had better not think of it/ she said. 'If 
you take an interest in your nephew, you had 
better dissuade him from his project.' I asked 
her to be more explicit. For a long time she 
hesitated and demurred. I asked her why she 
never lived in the house herself. 'I can't,' she 
answered, as I thought . rather abruptly. 'That's 
nonsense,' said I, thinking she had some stupid 
scruples as a young unmarried woman ; ' you are 
at liberty to live anywhere you please.' ' I can't 
live there, at any rate; they won't let me.' 
'That's preposterous,' I went on, knowing she 
was quite independent, and, having no relations, 
would certainly not allow her agents or people to 
interfere with her. ' Who are they ? % I asked. 
'The ghosts,' she replied, quite as coolly as 
though they had been the rheumatism or smoking 
chimneys. But after that, my dear Hector," 
wound up my aunt, "of course you will give up 
the idea." 

Yet I had not the slightest intention of doing 
anything of the kind. If anything, this news 
made me all the more keen. My curiosity was 
piqued, my amour propre aroused. Should I, a 
full-grown man, who had seen and done most 
things, be frightened out of my purpose by a silly 
story of a ghost? What if Maxted was reputed to 
be haunted? The ghost would hardly interfere 
with my sketching ; and, if I succeeded in this, 
my sole object in visiting. the place, I should not 
mind a little nightly disturbance. So I wrote 

back to my aunt in these terms, and begged her 
to assure Miss Maxted that all the ghosts in 
Christendom, or out of it, should not drive me 
from the Manor House if I had but the fair 
owner's permission to occupy it. 

I think Miss Maxted must have been piqued in 
her turn by her reply. She did not seem pleased 
that I should make light of her family ghosts; she 
did not say this in so many words ; but in finally 
yielding to my request, which she did with the 
best grace in the world, she saddled her consent 
with one or two conditions which proved to me 
that she wished to make my tenantry as terrible as 
possible. She played, as it were, into the ghost's 
hands. In the first place, she stipulated that I 
should live in the house by myself, her ostensible 
excuse being that she did not like the notion of 
having strange and unknown people about the 
place. She could rely upon me, an artist, to 
have a reverent care for the furniture and contents 
of the house, which, although ancient and worn, 
were still precious as heirlooms and from their 
associations. Therefore she let the house to me, 
and to me alone. .Moreover, she hoped I should 
not want to bring any servants of my own. So 
far as my personal comfort was concerned, the 
gardener and his wife would take every care of 
me. I might not mind a little roughing, perhaps, 
but the old man had once been a page-boy, and 
had some knowledge of valeting, and his wife was 
equal to cooking and caring for a single gentle- 
man. If I agreed to these terms, I might enter 
into occupation at once. 

Of course I agreed. I did not mind roughing 
it ; that was all in the way of business, and I had 
done it a dozen times already in far worse quarters 
than a snug country house, and, instead of a gar- 
dener and his wife, had often been contented to 
do without servants at all. Moreover, I seemed 
to see below these conditions a certain tone of 
irony and chaff, and I was determined that Miss 
Maxted should not terrify me out of my purpose 
by insisting on my facing the nameless terrors of 
Maxted Manor House alone. 

Shall I confess honestly at once that I did not 
feel quite so courageous when I returned to the 
place? I reached it late in the afternoon; the 
season was the autumn, and the weather was some- 
what boisterous and unsettled. Heavy clouds hung 
around like a pall ; the trees, with their changing 
tints, encircled and hemmed in the house with an 



impenetrable wall, which seemed to shut it alto- 
gether out from the world beyond. 

It was not without a certain sense of trepida- 
tion — that peculiar feeling of gooseflesh which 
accompanies a shiver of terror — that I crossed the 
hanging bridge over the moat, and passed under 
the old arched gateway. The gardener unlocked, 
and then swung back with difficulty, the heavy 
iron-studded oaken outer door ; a second pre- 
sented itself, and opened into the central court- 
yard. This, which I had especially admired by 
daylight, with its quaint feudal air, its giant 
shrubs in full flower, seemed now like the base 
of a deep wide well. High up, on every side, 
rose the straight dark walls ; windows there were 
in plenty, but all were closed with shutters, and 
reflected no light ; above all, on one side the tall 
belfry and clock-tower soared aloft, till its pinna- 
cle seemed lost in the clouds. A grim unearthly 
silence reigned around, which was mocked and 
soon conquered by the sounds made by our clat- 
tering feet upon the pavement of the courtyard. 
My impulse up to this point was to turn tail, to 
withdraw at once from my enterprise, and return 
without delay to Blueborough. 

But now the old gardener had made good his 
entrance into the house. The moment he opened 
the door, a flood of welcome light flashed out 
across the passage into the court. It came from 
one of the sitting-rooms which had been prepared 
for me. Miss Ducks, the gardener's wife, had 
kindled a blazing fire on the hearth ; near it 
dinner was laid on a small oval table, and the 
fire-light danced pleasantly upon glass and cutlery 
and snowy cloth. Miss Maxted, as I afterward 
heard, had desired that I should be made thor- 
oughly comfortable, and under these instructions 
Mrs. Ducks had felt justified in bringing out the 
best table-linen and a portion of the family plate. 
She had done more. From the kitchen, which 
was at no great distance, came a most savory 
smell, and assured me that at least I might count 
upon dining well. 

I threw myself into a great high-backed chair 
before the fire, and felt immediately thoroughly at 
home. Meanwhile the gardener went to and fro, 
bringing in all my traps and belongings from 
without. When he had finished, he asked me if I 
should like to see my room, and went out to ask 
his wife in the kitchen in what room she had 
made my bed. I heard their conversation every 

word. The old lady was extremely deaf, and the 
gardener was obliged to shout very loud to make 
her understand. 

"In the state-chamber, surely," said Mrs. 
Ducks. " Why not, you old image ? M she went 
on. "It's the biggest and best of beds — the 
downiest in the Manor House; you ought to 
know, for we slept in it — 


"Only once, dame, only once." 

" Well, and whose fault was it that we did not 
use it oftener? Yours; you are a cur at best, 
gaffer. You pretend to be deaf when it don't 
suit you to hear. But that night you heard 
more than I did with your capers, for I slept 
through it all. 

"I wouldn't sleep in that room again, not 
for worlds. You'd better change it. Come." 

"I won't. I don't want to do my work over 
twice, just to fall in with your tantrums. Besides, 
Miss Judith said he was to have it — so there ! 
The gentleman's not like you, afraid of his 
shadow; so g'long and show him up to his 

I gathered much from these remarks: first, that 
Mrs. Ducks was the gray mare and had a shrewish 
tongue ; next, which was more personal to myself, 
that there was some mystery about the state-cham- 
ber; last of all, that Miss Maxted herself wished 
me to occupy it, — probably out of mischievous 
desire to try my courage, — and as this notion 
grew with me, I felt that I was bound not to draw 

Whea the gardener returned, and, holding a 
candle high overhead, led the way up-stairs, we 
passed through those rooms en suite with that in 
which I was to dine, — low, snug rooms, with 
ancient hangings and furniture, and each having 
two or three small mullioned windows giving upon 
the moat. On the other side, all the rooms had 
doors opening upon the corridor, and the windows 
of this corridor looked into the central court. 
The last room had a small door at the far end, up 
three steps, and I asked whither it led? "To the 
tower staircase, and so to the clock-tower," said 
the old man, carelessly; "it's locked, and never 
used." With that we passed out into the corri- 
dor, and I found a flight of wide oak stairs leading 
to the first floor. Here there were rooms the 
counterpart of those below, and that which I was 
to occupy was exactly above my dining-room. It 
was entered from the corridor, and its windows 



also gave upon the moat. There was nothing 
very peculiar in my bedroom, except that it had 
an old fashioned air. The big bed was of dark, 
old oak, richly carved ; there was a press of the 
same wood ; the washstand was of quaint shape, 
fitted with basin and jug and phials of some metal 
which, on closer inspection, I found to be silver; 
the floor was of dark oak, and the only carpet was a 
narrow rug by the bed, and before the fireplace. 
This last was a wide cavernous affair, with large 
brass dogs, and on these crackled and sparkled a 
magnificent fire, which diffused warmth and com- 
fort into every corner. A sweet smell pervaded 
the place, as of new lavender and some antique 
perfume combined. If the ghosts loved this room, 
they were luxurious ghosts, with a taste above 
brimstone and sulphur. 

" I shall do very well here," I said cheerily to 
my conductor. 

" So you ought; so you ought," he replied, but 
it was with an effort, as though he knew of reasons 
why I should not. 

"There are a many more rooms," he went on, 
"if it happens you don't like this one. And you 
may not, — you may not," -he went on, with a 
dubious mysterious shake of the head. 

Half an hour later I was at dinner. Mrs. Ducks 
gave me some very succulent soup, and a very 
cunningly-contrived stew, in which there were 
several kinds of game, rabbit, hare, partridge, and 
a quantity of vegetables, shreds of cabbage, onions, 
carrots, broad beans, and soft marrowfat peas. I 
had brought a case of wine with me, anjj after a 
pint of Giesler and a glass of good claret I felt 
equal to face a whole legion of ghosts, if they 
wished to force their acquaintance upon me. But 
the evening slipped away most tranquilly ; I sat 
and smoked, and read an odd volume of *' Cam- 
den's Brittanica," and occasionally dozed. I was 
disturbed only by the visit of old Ducks, who 
came about 10 p.m. to ask me if I had any further 
commands, and at eleven I took my candlestick 
and went upstairs to bed. The state chamber 
well deserved its name, with its rich hangings, its 
dark-polished floor, which here and there reflected 
the fire-light, its gorgeous bed, and general air of 
mediaeval splendor; it was worthy to be the rest- 
ing-place of a prince. 

Throwing another log or two on the fire, I 
prepared to retire to rest. There was a small 
table by the bedside, and on this, according to 

custom, I placed my candlestick and match-box. 
I might want a light during the night watches. 
Last of all, I thought it advisable to lock and 
bolt my door. Ghosts, like love, may laugh at 
locks, but the latter are useful against living hu- 
manity; and, after all, I was alone in a strange 
deserted house. 

I soon went to sleep. How long my slumbers 
lasted I could not say, but it seemed to me barely a 
short half-hour before I was suddenly awakened by 
a most tremendous noise. I could not have been 
more startled, or have more suddenly regained all 
my faculties, if I had been drenched from head to 
foot by buckets of icy cold water. 

It seemed to me as if my room had been 
invaded by a host of armed men — men literally 
in armor, or carrying a whole arsenal of weapons, 
for the noise was mainly that of clattering steel 
and iron. I heard the rattling of mailed gaunt- 
lets as they struck upon morion or cuirass, the 
tramp of heavy heels with loud jingling spurs, 
the martial clank of swords trailing, of arquebuses 
grounded on the floor. The noise must have gone 
on for some seconds before I was perfectly awake ; 
after that it pervaded the room* for a time, then 
abated, but never so far ceased that I was free 
from the impression that I was in the company of 
a crowd. The room was quite dark all this time 
(how long exactly I never knew), and I felt 
extremely uncomfortable. I may go further, 
and confess without shame that I was seized with 
a panic of terror — a fear so paralyzing that for 
the moment I could do nothing. My lights were 
there at my elbow, but I did not dare move a hand 
to reach them. All I could do, as so many of us 
have done in childhood, and indeed long after- 
ward, was to pull up the bedclothes and try to 
bury myself among them. By degrees, as there 
was no more noise, I was beginning to be reas- 
sured, when all at once the clamor recommenced, 
this time, as it seemed, at the .very foot of my 
bed. There was the same hurrying to and fro of 
heavy feet, the same clattering and banging of 
steel. Then this was followed by a sudden seem- 
ingly simultaneous rush toward the windows. I 
heard the rattle of one of the casements, a fierce 
struggle, then a piercing shriek. Something 
heavy had been thrust out, and had dropped into 
the moat. I distinctly heard the splash in the 
water, like a great boulder rolling off a high cliff 
into the sea. There was another sound of feet 



rushing back toward the door, thence out into 
the corridor; and for some time I still heard them, 
but growing more and more faint, till they pres- 
ently faded altogether away. 

I lay quiet for some time, quite unable to sleep, 
but becoming gradually more and more composed. 
By and by I mustered up courage to strike a light. 
The room was as snug and habitable as ever. I 
looked at my watch — it was past three. Day- 
light was due in an hour. I fancied that there 
was no fear of a recurrence of my visitation, so I 
got up and examined the door ; it remained locked 
and bolted as I had left it on retiring to rest. 
The windows", which I had so' distinctly" heard 
opened, were also securely fastened and closed. 

I once more retired to bed, and very shortly 
went off soundly to sleep. When I awoke, the 
sun was shining brightly into my room. I had 
been awakened by the old gardener, who was 
knocking loudly at my door. He was very 
anxious to know what sort of a night I had 

Should I tell him — cross-question him — endeavor 
to find out whether the same thing happened to 
all occupants of the state-chamber? No ! I felt 
it would be a premature confession of weakness. 
I preferred to go further into this mysterious 
business before I admitted that I had been scared. 

All that day I spent in wandering about the 
place, doing no work, but fixing upon the best 
points of view. I constantly met the old gar- 
dener. I tried to draw him into conversation. I 
questioned him concerning the Manor House ; 
what was its history — was it very old ? had any- 
thing odd, any deed of violence, occurred in it ? 
when did the family last live there? and so on. 
All he would tell me was that it had seen many 
changes and chances. There had been much 
fighting there in times past ; it had been a garrison 
for the king, King Charles; it had been beleaguered 
and besieged, and well nigh lost to the cause 
through a traitor within the walls, who had be- 
trayed it to the enemy, but who had been detected 
in time, and had paid the penalty of his treachery 
with his life. 

Was this a clue to the strange noises I had 
heard? I determined to give the state-chamber 
the trial of another night. But on this second 
occasion, although I retired to rest as before, I 
kept a light burning, and, having fortified myself 
with two cups of strong coffee, I had no desire to 

go to sleep. I read steadily on through the night- 
watches — my book was a novel of Anthony Trol- 
Jope's ; and as two o'clock came without a repeti- 
tion of the previous noise, I concluded I was not 
to be disturbed, and was actually on the point of 
extinguishing the light and turning over to sleep, 
when I heard far off, but distinctly in the corridor 
and making toward .my room, a hurried frenzied 
movement, as of the approach of a number of 
armed men. Next moment my bedroom was in- 
vaded hotly and hastily by a crowd. The noises 
were exactly those of the night before. My 
burning candle made no difference whatever; the 
room was just as fully occupied ; my ghostly visi- 
tants were as busily employed. After the same 
delay I heard the window opened, and the same 
heavy fall into the waters of the moat. 

The more I pondered over this strange occur- 
rence, the more I was inclined to think that the 
mystery was connected with the moat, and with 
the old gardener's story of a deed of violence 
done ages ago. I determined to question him 
further about this moat. Had it ever been drained 
off? I asked him next day. "Not that he knew 
of; why should it?" he replied. I suggested that 
stagnant water was reputed unwholesome, and that 
the health of the occupants of the Manor House 
might some day suffer. It was not likely to have 
many occupants, "except perhaps the likes of 
yourself," he remarked, somewhat contemptu- 
ously, as though he thought me a fool for living 
there at all. Finding I could make nothing of the 
gardener, I went over to Blueborough, and saw 
Miss Maxted's agents. I pointed out that, on 
sanitary grounds alone, the occasional draining of 
the moat would obviously be of great advantage 
to the house. If Miss Maxted would permit it to 
be done, I should be very pleased to superintend 
the operation. All the answer I received at first 
was a series of questions. Did I complain of the 
unhealthiness of the house? If so, I was the first 
who had done so, and the remedy was in my own 
hands. Did I propose to inflict the cost of drain- 
age upon Miss Maxted ? She could hardly be ex- 
pected to meet the outlay, especially for a tenant 
who had in a manner forced himself upon her. 
Unless I had better grounds for preferring my 
request, the answer was certain to be in the 

Upon this I had recourse once more to my aunt. 
I begged her to see Miss Maxted, and inform her 



that I was not quite satisfied with the Manor 
House. It was not exactly uninhabitable, but it 
was difficult to get a good night's rest there. Miss 
Maxted would doubtless be well aware to what I 
referred. I was not particularly alarmed, nor had 
I even been made uncomfortable. I was prepared 
to face even worse than that which I had en- 
countered at Maxted ; but, in the owner's best 
interests, I wished to purge the house of the 
annoyance which troubled it, and if I was given 
full powers I thought I knew how. What I wanted 
was permission to have the moat drained, cleaned, 
and thoroughly examined. Would Miss Maxted 
agree to this? 

My aunt's answer came at length. It was very 
rambling and rather hysterical. She began by 
imploring me to leave Maxted Manor without a 
moment's delay. From that she passed on to a 
catalogue of all the horrors which had come under 
her notice during the last five-and-thirty years. 
It was only toward the end of her letter that she 
referred to the" matter which I had at heart. Then 
at last she confided to me' that she had seen Miss 
Maxted, who had seemed much surprised, not to 
say vexed, at what I had written. But whether 
this arose from concern at my sufferings in the 
state-chamber, or annoyance at the light way in 
which I treated the Maxted ghosts, I could not 
for the life of me make out. . All I could gather 
was that Miss Maxted had somewhat grudgingly 
yielded to my request, and had instructed her 
agents to give me every assistance in draining 
the moat. 

So the moat was drained. The whole country 
side, not a very populous district, came to assist. 
It was not a difficult job, as the house stood at a 
higher level than the surrounding ground, and 
the water from the moat was run off into a large 
duck-pond near the gardener's cottage. The 
work was nearly finished toward sundown, and 
the men went off, leaving the rest of the water 
still to run. The moat must have been quite 
empty by midnight. I once more occupied the 
stat£-chamber, which after the second night's dis- 
turbance I had vacated, and I sat up till two in 
the morning, awaiting the usual visitation. The 
affair came off as heretofore, but with one curious 
difference. The window was opened ; there was 
a struggle, a shriek, and a heavy fall — but not 
into water, obviously because the water was all 
gone. This made me all the more anxious to 

j inspect the bottom of the moat, and I was de 
mined to be the first to do so. Very soon a 
daylight I was moving, and, having dres 
myself, I hastened to the spot to explore. 1 
bottom of the moat was in a filth v conditio 
Paved with massive blocks of granite, in wh: 
the process of disintegration was slow, there h 
been in all these years but a slight accumulate 
of muddy detritus or sediment; but the sto 
floor was encumbered with a thousand odds ai 
ends, a heterogeneous collection of the mc 
extraordinary nondescript things. Fragments 
crockery and glass; drinking vessels, some < 
horn* and evidently centuries old ; scraps < 
various metals; the carcass of a cat, recent 1 
drowned and not yet decomposed — these wer 
what first caught my eye. There would be fin 
pickings for mud -grubbers and chiffonniers if thej 
might be permitted to sift and search amon| 
these newly-exposed treasures. I did not pause 
to turn them over myself, but made for that 
part of the moat which lay immediately below 
the window of the state-chamber and peered 

What was that lying all of a heap, like a collec- 
tion of old iron at the door of a rag and bone- 
seller's shop? A number of pieces of iron 
evidently, all oxidized and corroded, covered with 
red rust and a deposit of slimy aqueous lichen. 
Without delay I clambered down into the moat 
and began to examine them more closely. They 
were clearly pieces of old armor, breastplate, or 
cuirass, greaves, gauntlets, with a round helmet or 
morion lying a little apart from the rest. I turned 
over everything one by one, and, to my horror, 
discovered within a quantity of human. bones, all 
in excellent preservation, each encased still in the 
armor which had once been their protection against 
mortal foes. The breast-bones were plainly dis- 
tinguishable inside the cuirass, the thigh-bones 
were within the greaves, the hands in the gaunt- 
lets; worse than all, through the open fisor of 
the morion grinned the still perfect teeth, of a 
ghastly skull. 

"These, then," thought I, "are the mortal 
remains of some poor wretch whom revengeful or 
other passions have sent thus secretly, and probably 
without warning, to his long account. They must 
be taken up and buried without delay." 

" Hulloa, master, what are you after down 
there?" cried a voice at this moment, and I saw 



the old gardener above, looking at me with sus- 
picious eyes. 

" Come and see for yourself. You may as 
well lend a hand. These bones are human 
bones — 


"I wouldn't touch them with the end of my 
long rake," he said, shuddering. "You'd best 
leave 'em alone, too ; what call is there for you to 
meddle or mix with these things?. They don't 
concern you." 

" I'll go bail that when these bones are buried 
there'll be no more haunting of the state-chamber. 
Come, don't be an old fool. Lay hold ; I'll hand 
them up to you, one by one." 

Very reluctantly, and grumbling audibly, the 
gardener received the armor and the bones they 
encased, as I gave them to him. Then I climbed 
up the stone counterscarp of the moat, and with 
his assistance removed them all to a corner of the 
garden. There I made the old man dig a deep 
hole, and we consigned them to the earth. A 
small stone was set to mark the spot, in case Miss 
Maxted or any one might wish to reopen the rude 

"There, Mr. Ducks," I said with a sigh of 
relief, " that's the end of that business. The 
Manor House will be no longer worried by 

"The ghosts never forgive, master," said the 
grave-digger, gloomily. "You may think to 
muzzle 'em and put a stop on 'em here ; but 
they're like weeds. If they're pulled out of one 
corner, they'll spring up faster in another." 

"I feel certain, at any rate, that they'll leave 
the state-chamber alone." 

" Maybe, and it'll not be a day too soon. But 
there is a curse upon the old place, I'm afeared, 
and if you stop here, master, you'll be troubled 
by them in some other way. Mark my words, — 
in some other, worser way." 

I was right, however, as to the state-chamber. 
I slept in it that same night, and the next, and 
still a third, without encountering the slightest 
disturbance or annoyance. After this I felt justi- 
fied in writing, through my aunt, to advise Miss 
Maxted of the success of my operations. In due 
course, and through the same channel, I received 
the owner's warmest thanks. But doubts under- 
lay every line. Miss Maxted, like her gardener, 
mistrusted the completeness of the cure. I might 
be confident that the Manor House was purged, 

but she knew the place better, and feared that 
manifestations and visitations would crop up in 
some other shape and form. The message I 
received ended with a sentence which gave me, 
as I thought, much insight into Miss Maxted's 
character. " Perhaps, as I seemed an amateur in 
ghost-laying," she told my aunt, "I might not 
mind exercising myself a little longer in the 
attempt to render the Manor a habitable house." 
Miss Maxted was clearly chaffing me, — making 
game of me, — and I am not sure I was altogether 

But the days and nights slipped by without any 
fresh occurrence. The former I spent at my easel 
in the air ; it was perfect painting weather, and I 
had already several pictures well on toward com- 
pletion. The latter I passed in the snug dining- 
room, lazily replete after Mrs. Ducks's toothsome 
cuisine, and reading and dozing before the fire. 
I slept now always in the state-chamber, and 
retired early to rest. One night — it was about a 
fortnight after the drainage of the moat — as usual 
I took up my candlestick soon after ten, and went 
out through the door giving into the corridor, 
which, as I have said, margined all these rooms, 
and led to the foot of the staircase. All along 
this corridor, it will be remembered, were win- 
dows opening into the central court. 

I had issued forth a little brusquely, as was my 
wont ; but the moment I was through the door I 
became conscious that some one was watching my 
movements from the central court. I caught sight 
— I was nearly positive of it — of a partially-veiled 
face at the passage window. It was but a momen- 
tary glimpse; directly my eyes rested upon it, it 
had disappeared. Yet it left a distinct impression 
on my mind. It could not be mere fancy or 
imagination. I was perfectly cool and collected, 
and I had a clear recollection of what I had seen. 
The bead was enveloped in a white hood or snood, 
which was drawn across the lower features and 
concealed them, and indeed most of the face but 
the eyes. Those eyes ! as they glittered bright 
and balefully in their snowy setting, I felt certain 
I had seen them before. But where ? 

I did not waste time in thinking. The whole 
thing might be a mere trick, and I was resolved 
not to allow myself to be easily deceived. I made 
all haste into the central court, and, candle in 
hand, made a close and searching investigation of 
the place. The light burnt without flickering in 



the still September air, and illuminated a large 
area around me as I moved about. But I could 
see nothing unusual. All was perfectly quiet. 
There was no one in the court ; no one at least of 
earthly, ordinary mould, — for the notion that I 
was not really and entirely alone had somehow 
gradually taken possession of me, and it was not 
without a quickened pulse and a slight tension of 
the heart strings that I re-entered the passage and 
made for my own room up-stairs. As I passed 
along I still had the feeling that something else — 
I could hardly call it some person, for the com- 
panionship was of the vague impalpable kind 
which argued no bodily form or existence — was 
near me all the time. I seemed, too, as 1 got to 
the foot of the staircase, to hear a light pattering 
of feet upon the oaken floor, and the gentle closing 
of a not very distant door. 

On reaching my bedroom 1 locked and bolted 
the door as usual, and setting down my lamp, 
sought to recover my somewhat shattered self- 
possession. This was an entirely new and unex- 
pected line of attack. It was, to my mind, far 
more weird and ghostly than the other, and I was 
proportionately the more disturbed. That face 
with its quaint dress; these eyes, where had I 
seen them before ? I sat thinking, thinking, with 
my ears on the stretch for any fresh unusual dis- 
turbing sounds, and wondering what strange events 
the coming night would produce. But the house 
was quiet and silent as death ; so it continued till 
long after midnight. After watching intently till 
well on in the small hours, worn out but still 
somewhat dazed and confused, I turned into bed 
and was soon sound asleep. 

I slept late next day, and the old gardener 
remarked upon it, as I thought, a little pointedly. 
Did he know more than he chose to tell ? 1 ques- 
tioned him closely, as I had often done before. 
My efforts were just as fruitless. He positively 
denied that he or any one he knew of had come 
to the house after ten that night. Why did I 
ask? had I been disturbed? I would not tell him 
all, but I described the quaint head-dress which 
encircled the face I had seen, and I asked him if 
he knew of anything like it anywhere. My eager- 
ness for information was intense. 

"Why, master, it's jist that that Lady Dora 
wears ; you've seen it in her picture in the great 

And then I understood why it was that those 

eyes of the night previous still haunted me wit! 
their malevolent gaze. 

" Has her ladyship the character of being a 
all uneasy in her grave?" I next asked, in a 
flippant, off-hand a tone as I could assume. "I: 
she supposed to walk about this house at night ?" 

"You don't say you've seen her, master i 
Her?" And the old man clutched my arm con- 
vulsively, looking into my face with a mixture 
of horror and incredulity which considerably 
impressed me. 

"I think so; last night about half-past ten." 

' ' Dear, dear, dear ! I warned you not to be 
too cock-sure that you'd done with the ghosts. 
Oh, master, for the love of Heaven be careful. 
Don't stay in the house, don't ; or if you must, 
keep to yourself. Don't follow her, don't meet 

her, don't thwart or anger her, or " He did 

not finish, but shambled hurriedly off, leaving 
me a prey to mixed and slightly uncomfortable 

The lady was much in my thoughts the re- 
mainder of the day. Would she show herself 
again at night? I did not wait to be startled ; but 
as soon as the Ducks left the place, which they did 
as usual at my particular request, I patrolled the 
centre courtyard for a couple of hours, walking in 
the dark, but having a match-box handy and a 
candle-end in my pocket. But nothing appeared, 
and about eleven I went up-stairs to bed. Nor 
was 1 disturbed again that night. Next morning 
the first disagreeable impression was already fast 
fading away, and I began to think that my fears 
had been the father of my vision, and that I had 
never really seen any Lady Dora, or any other 
lady, at all. 

But now came another phase of the mystery. 
Artist-like, I am devoted to flowers. Old Ducks 
humored me willingly in this, and kept my 
room well supplied. The evening before, he had 
brought me in an unusually fine bouquet of late 
roses, which I had myself arranged in an old- 
fashioned vase and placed on a table of my 
sitting-room. These roses had been one of the 
last things I had looked at and handled before 
going up to bed the night before. When I came 
down-stairs I missed the flowers. Had old Ducks 
come in and removed them ? I called out for the 
old man. He was not in the kitchen, nor yet was 
his wife. Inwardly cursing him for moving the 
roses, I went ou to see where he had put them. 



I hunted through several rooms, and discovered 
them at last in a little boudoir adjoining the state- 

"Fussy old jackass!" I said to myself, as I 
carried them down-stairs, "why can't he leave 
things alone?" And I repeated the remark to him 
directly he came in. 

"I never touched the flowers," he replied, in 
an injured, surly tone. "This is the first time 
I've been to the house this morning." 

"Then your wife did." 

"She's down with the rheumatis, and can't 
come over." 

" Who did, then?" I asked, sharply. 

"Ah ! who knows? But you must expect to find 
more things moved than that, — aye, and worse, 
too, — now that she is at her pranks again, and 
trapesing up and down this house." 

There was truth in what the old man said. It 
seemed now as if some especially malicious spirit 
were resolved to worry and annoy me. I seldom 
found things of a morning as I had left them in 
the sitting-room the night before. Now it was 
my easel, now my painting apparatus; on another 
occasion I found all the books of the library scat- 
tered about the floor. I bore these small vexations 
stoically for some time. They did not disturb me 
greatly, as throughout I was never personally vis- 
ited and annoyed. But at last, as if to goad me 
to desperation, my tormentor took to interfering 
with my work. I was in the habit of often leaving 
my canvases fastened together just as I brought 
them in from nature. 1 now frequently found 
them undone, and hidden in out-of-the-way cor- 
ners. In some instances the color was still wet, 
and had been considerably smudged. Had this 
been all, I might still have borne my troubles 
with patience. But when ghostly hands presumed 
to use my own palette and brushes to paint upon 
my own work, I felt that it was nearly time for 
me to leave Maxted Manor. Yet this actually 
happened. One night I had left a carefully-exe- 
cuted sketch of the great gateway, seen from 
within, on my easel, and next morning I found a 
figure — a shadowy female figure m white — inter- 
polated in the attitude of passing out on to the 
bridge. The figure was not badly painted, be it 
understood, but it was unnaturally large, and its 
introduction gave the picture a weird, uncanny 
effect. Next day another sketch, of the exterior 
of the house from the lawn, had been similarly 
Vol. XVI. 

tampered with. The same white figure had been 
introduced, with the same contempt of proportion, 
and with the same bold, flowing handling of the 

I confess that by this time my feeling was one 
of exasperation rather than of terror. I began to 
think that it was time either to unravel this last 
mystery or remove myself entirely from the 
annoyance which I endured. Only I did not like 
to beat too hasty a retreat. It would savor of 
cowardice, and I was no more a prey to this now 
than before. I determined before I left the place 
to make another effort to get at the bottom of the 
thing. Perhaps I might end tl is as I had already 
done the mystery of the moat. At least I would 
watch for a night or two, and try and trace back 
effects to their cause. 

The next night, before retiring to my bedroom, 
I first made a careful examination of the central 
court, as I generally did, and with the same nega- 
tive results. I then entered and looked carefully 
through all the rooms on the ground floor ; I tried 
all doors and windows in them, as well as those in 
the corridor or passage. I did the same on the 
first floor. After that I entered my bedroom, set 
down the light, and went through the form of 
locking the door. But I unlocked it in one and 
the same moment, and left the door a little ajar. 
Next I put on a pair of list slippers. Then I sat 
down for half an hour, to wait till my enemy was 
well established upon the theatre of her nightly 

About midnight I crept stealthily out into the 
corridor. I carried no light, and it was pitch dark, 
but by this time I knew every inch of my road. I 
reached the top of the large staircase, passed down 
them into the corridor on the ground floor, and so 
toward the sitting-room I always used. More than 
once I stopped and listened. The house was abso- 
lutely still and quiet. But now I was abreast of the 
sitting-room, and once more I paused. It was 
here that all the mischief had been perpetrated, 
and this was the spot I especially desired to ob- 
serve. I stood in front of the door for quite 
fifteen minutes, as keenly alert as a hare on its 
form. But the stillness of the night was unbroken. 
I could not detect the slightest movement inside. 
Indeed, I had all but made up my mind to enter 
the room and finally set all my doubts at rest, 
when I became suddenly aware that it was really 
occupied after all. I never quite understood how 



this conclusion was borne in upon me. But I 
know that I heard footsteps within; more than 
once I detected a slight " hem ;" last of all there 
was the unmistakable grating of a chair as it was 
pushed across the solid oaken floor. 

My object now was to turn the door-handle 
gently and peer, unobserved if possible, into the 
room. It was my only way of ascertaining whether 
any one, and if so, what kind of a person, was there. 
I might have been a professional burglar, I did 
the trick so cleverly. I got the door opened 
quite artistically. There was not a rattle or a 
creak; everything seemed to play into my hands. 
Presently there was room for me to get my head 
through — and I looked in. 

What I saw was not unexpected, yet it startled 
me considerably. A tall female figure in white 
was seated at my easel, leaning over it and paint- 
ing busily. I was spell-bound for the moment, 
and could neither go back nor forward. 

How long I should have remained thus it is 
impossible to imagine. But after a few minutes, 
perhaps under that strange mesmeric influence 
which conveys to all of us the impression that we 
are being watched, the female raised her head 
suddenly and looked round. I saw the head, with 
its face half-concealed, of Lady Dora Maxted — the 
same which I had seen through the window in the 
court — the same which I knew by heart by the 
portrait in the great hall. 

She did not give me long to observe her, how- 
ever. The moment our eyes met — how well I 
remembered those great wild brown eyes ! — she 
rose to her feet with a startled exclamation, and 
glided rapidly away. It was a strange but not 
unearthly shout; on the contrary, it had a dis- 
tinctly human intonation, and was not without a 
tinge of mockery and laughter. I rushed into the 
room, and gave chase. All the doors of the rooms 
en suite were open — had they been left so pur- 
posely? — and the figure on passing through the 
first banged it behind her. This gave her the 
advantage, and increased the distance between us. 
It was the same with the next donr, and the next; 
still I was close behind her, and might eventually 
have overtaken her had the race been a little 
longer. But the last door was that into the 
turret with its winding stairs. This she also 
banged behind her, and I distinctly heard the 
bolts shot in the lock, accompanied by another 
sound, that of suppressed laughter. 

She was gone. I struck a light then, tried the 
door, shook it repeatedly, but it withstood all my 
efforts. I knew that I had failed, yet I was not 
dissatisfied with my adventure. At least I had 
driven my tormentor off the field, even if she had 
left no trace behind her. 

No trace? There I was mistaken. The ghost, 
or whatever she might be, in her hurried exit had 
lost one of her shoes, and there it lay just where 
she had disappeared, — a pretty, dainty, artistically 
made high -heeled shoe. 

I took it up and examined it closely by the 
candle-light. It might have been the property of 
some supernatural personage, but it gave me a 
very distinct impression that it had just fallen 
from a human foot. There was nothing shadowy 
or unsubstantial about it ; it was made of good 
honest purple kid, adorned with a fresh rosette of 
crimson ribbon, and lined within with soft pink 
silk. That I held in my hand a clue, however, to 
the mystery of Maxted Manor, I was more and 
more convinced as I turned over and inspected 
my high-heeled shoe. 

It was not till I had carried the shoe up-stairs to 
my room and had made a second inspection, that 
I discovered names and a number stamped upon 
the sole. The names were somewhat blurred, but 
I made out at length what read like Brogue and 
Brodequin, 295 New Bond street. Below, at 
some distance, were the numerals 379663. 

The names, of course, were those of the makers, 
the number that of the customer's last. 1 surely 
might ascertain from the shoemakers whether this 
customer was a denizen of this or another world. 
Full of this idea, I walked over to Blueborough next 
morning and telegraphed to a friend in town to 
go to Bond street and inquire. If Messrs. Brogue- 
and Brodequin made any difficulties, I determined 
to proceed to London myself and prosecute the 
search. This accomplished, I breakfasted at the 
hotel, and then returned to Maxted, leaving word 
at the telegraph office to send me over any mes- 
sage that might arrive. 

My road back to the Manor House led me past 
the gardener's cottage. As I passed, it occurred 
to me that I might perhaps extract something 
from old Ducks, and I paused in front of his door. 
As I did so, I caught sight of a face at the window 
up-stairs, — the face of a young girl, as I thought, — 
but the moment I looked up it disappeared. Ducks 
was not in, nor was his wife seemingly. I called to 


them both, but no one replied. I was turning to , than by their resemblance to another pair I had 
leave the cottage, when I heard heavy clattering \ seen only the night before. 

footsteps descending the stair. I waited, and : It was she who put an end to the pause by once 
presently a young woman entered the kitchen more saying, "You'd better be ganging," and 
parlor, and walked straight up to me. pointing with her thumb to the door. Of course, 

In spite of the heavy brogues which I had I could not well stay at the cottage, and I could 
heard and now saw, I was fairly taken aback, for ! not well tax her with having been a party to the 
I did not remember to have ever met a prettier . annoyance I had endured at the Manor House — 
girl. She was tall and shapely, and had a noble, not, at least, without more evidence than I had 
a strikingly noble and handsome face, with bright just then. So I said good-bye civilly, and turned 
curls rippling over a sunny brow, and large brown '• on my heel. 

eyes full of expression. There was breeding in - Just outside the house I encountered the tele- 
every feature. A lady surely, although so quietly, graph boy on a pony. He had just trotted over 
not to say shabbily, dressed. But the plain drab from Blueborough with my answer. I tore open 
frock of dark homespun fitted her figure perfectly, ' the yellow envelope and read : 
and the pink ribbons in her hair and at her throat, , " Have seen shoemakers ; no difficulty. Three 
if faded, were yet arranged with the taste that hundred and seventy-nine thousand six hundred 
argued a cultured mind. , and sixty-three, number of Miss Judith Maxted's 

"Pardon me," I began, raising my hat. "I | last." 
had no idea " i I knew it ! It was the fair owner herself, who, 

Then she spoke, and all poetry, all sentiment, ' from a mischievous desire to try my courage, had 
vanished. , been haunting the house. More, it was she her- 

" What's your wull ?" she said in the sweetest ' self whom I had just seen in the cottage. 
voice, marred by the most atrocious northern | I hurried back, and, without knocking, hastily 
burr; " Oi canna help ye, can oi ?" , lifted the latch and ran in. 

" I was looking for old Ducks." ' " Who's that? How dare you come in here?" 

"Oncle's out ; so's aunt. What's your wull?" , The voice was the same, but the accent was gone, 

" How is it I have never seen you before? Do ■ and I saw my young friend trying hard to conceal 
you always stay here with the Ducks?" I felt \ something which she held in her left hand, 
rather disposed to hold her in conversation. "I beg your pardon, but I came to restore 

"Na; I'm only biding for a wee. Oi'm soon something to its owner," and I produced the shoe, 
ganging whoam." She stopped, and, looking me ' "You have its fellow there in your left hand, 
full in the face for a moment, said, abruptly, "And i Allow me to present you with your property, Miss 
you'd better be ganging too. You may'nt bide ' Maxted." 
here." She started. "I'm not Miss Maxted. My 

"Well, perhaps you're right ; tell your uncle ' name's Barbara Ducks. What do you mean?" 
I'll call again. I want to speak to him about ' " 1 mean that I've found out the whole trick, 
something I picked up in the Manor House last i You have been too hard on me. Now, of course, 
night, — a shoe." I shall leave the house." 

"I'll tell him. A shoe, eh? What like? would "No, no," she said, "it was only a foolish 
it fit me?" she said, sticking out a foot which escapade. I am extremely grateful to you for 
seemed enormous in a coarsely-made heavy hob- having put an end to the ghosts in the state- 
nailed boot. ; chamber, and now I will go away myself, and you 

"Hardly, unless " ' will be troubled no more." 

Somehow I had my suspicions about this girl. . To make a brief conclusion to this long tile, I 
Her accent did not sound quite true; I thought it ' may say at once that she did leave Maxted Manor 


varied. She had a ring on one finger. These | that evening. I stayed on till the end of October, 
boots were too obviously ill-fitting. What if I But that winter I renewed my acquaintance with 
they had been assumed as a disguise? As these ( her under pleasanter auspices in London, and the 
thoughts passed rapidly through my brain, I kept I following summer we returned to the Manor House 
my eyes on hers, struck no less by their beauty ' in a new relationship. 




By Charlotte Adams. 

Hector Berlioz, the great French composer, 
is still but little known in America. Indeed, it is 
only since his death, in 1869, that France herself 
has accorded to him a position among the first of 
her musical geniuses. His life was passed in a 
struggle for recognition, the endeavor to revolu- 
tionize the musical systems of France and to 
introduce his robust and colossal theories of har- 
mony into her orchestral methods. The friend 
of Heinrich Heine, he bore a strong resemblance 
in character to the poet, in the bitterness and 
cynicism of his disposition, his perpetual antag- 
onism with the world, his brooding and sneering 
contempt of his enemies. The grotesque and the 
weird, the graceful and the subtle, found in his 
music the same utterance that Heine afforded 
them in his verse. Added to this, he possessed 
a wonderful fire, brilliancy, and daring, a re- 
markable sense of color, a sweeping audacity of 
conception and execution, which find their parallels 
in the mighty brushstrokes of some of the great 
French painters of the century, such, for instance, 
as Henri Regnault. Berlioz's genius is essentially 
French, — the genius of revolution. His life was 
one long war with circumstance, and the lesson 
to be learned from it is that of patience, courage, 
and the great final triumph of truth and art. 

Hector Berlioz was born in a small town not 
far from Lyons, in 1803. He began to compose 
in childhood. At nineteen he was sent to Paris 
to study medicine; but he felt a profound dislike 
for the profession chosen for him, and lie an- 
nounced to his father his fixed intention of be- 
coming a musician, and notably a composer. This* 
led to a quarrel and finally a rupture with his 
family, who withdrew all means of support from 
him. For several years he studied in Paris, suffer- 
ing every privation, and supporting himself by 
teaching the principles of his art, and singing in 
the chorus of a theatre. The first public per- 
formance of a work of his took place in 1S25, — 
the rendition of a mass in the church of San 
Koch. Most of his work up to this time had been 
pronounced worthless by the leading musicians of 
Paris. His first enthusiasm was for Gluck, which 

later mingled with a passionate love of Weber 
and Beethoven. On these three great models he 
formed himself, and it is fair to suppose that the 
consequent productions of his genius, with the 
addition of his own fiery originality, would not 
meet with the approval of pseudo-classicists like 
Boieldieu and Cherubini. 

At last there came a change in his circum- 
stances. In 1828 he won the second prize for 
composition at the Conservatoire, and, two years 
later, the first prize, which gave him the privilege 
of two years 1 study in Rome and a certain sum of 
money. In Rome he lived for a short time on 
terms of intimate companionship with young Men- 
delssohn, who, however, failed to recognize in 
the stormy French youth the absolute genius of 
the future, and wrote, in one of his letters to his 
mother, that Berlioz was without a spark of talent. 
These two composers, these contrasts of musical 
art, did not meet until Berlioz, in his mature 
manhood, set out on that journey through Ger- 
many which so richly compensated him for his 
early sufferings. They met in Leipsic, in the full 
flush of their triumphs. Mendelssohn was just 
stepping down from the leader's desk, from which 
he had been directing the rehearsal of his " Wal- 
purgis-Nacht," when Berlioz approached and 
greeted him. At his request Mendelssohn gave 
his former comrade the baton with which he had 
been leading, and the following day the French 
composer sent him his own in return. 

One of the great mental crises of Berlioz's life, 
which exerted a lasting influence upon his com- 
positions, was .the sudden revelation to him of the 
genius of Shakspere, through the performances of 
an English dramatic company, headed by a some- 
what celebrated actress, who afterward became 
Berlioz's wife. Previous to this, like most French- 
men, he had only known the great English poet 
through garbled and unintelligent translations. 
The influence of Shakspere gave to his talent 
the stamp of romanticism which belonged to the 
French artistic development in the first half of 
the century. The best of his early works are 
the direct musical interpretation of Shakspere' s 



themes, such as the "Overture to King Lear," overwhelmed him with praise. It was at his 

and the symphony of " Romeo and Juliet," while instance that Berlioz composed the famous sym- 

the robust form and brilliant verve of his entire phony of " Harold in Italy." It grew out of a 

artistic utterance owe much to the impetus given desire expressed by Faganini that Berlioz should 

him by the study of Shakspere's colossal combi- write something for the viola. Five years later, at 

nations. the close of a concert given by Berlioz, at which 

Heine said of Berlioz that his music had in it " Harold" was played, Paganini, being unable to 

something primeval and gigantic. He called the 
composer, as Berlioz himself tells us, "a colossal 
nightingale ; a lark of eagle's size." 

One of his earliest friends and appreciators was 
Paganini. Berlioz was then still a struggling 
musician, absolutely penniless, and but just mar- 
ried to the woman whose poetic interpretation 
had revealed to him the mysteries of Sliakspere, 
and who was penniless, like himself. He gave a 
concert, at which Paganini was present. At its 
close the great violinist sought the composer, and 

express his admiration by word of mouth, since 
the disease from which he afterward died pre- 
vented his speaking above a whisper, fell upon his 
knees before Berlioz on the stage among all the 
musicians and kissed his band. Upon the follow- 
ing day Berlioz received a note from the great 
Italian virtuoso, in which, after telling him that 
" Beethoven being dead, Berlioz alone could lake 
his place," he begged him to accept the sum of 
twenty thousand francs as a mark of his profound 
admiration. This generous, and more, magnani- 



mous gift, so rarely paralleled in the intercourse 
of artists, enabled Berlioz to abandon the horrible 
drudgery of musical criticism and review-work by 
which he had been earning a scanty living, and 
devote himself entirely to composition. The 
inspiration of Shakspere and the munificence of 
Pagan ini produced in a short time the symphony 
of "Romeo and Juliet," thought by many to be 
Berlioz's greatest work. 

The cordiality which the musicians of other 
countries extended to Berlioz is in marked con- 
trast with the frigid and jealous reserve that had 
been shown him from the beginning of his career 
by the musicians of Paris, notably the faction 
headed by Cherubini, who saw in him the leader 
of a musical revolution and a robust and vital 
system against which their faded harmonies could 
not stand ground. 

During his first journey through Germany he 
gave orchestral concerts, producing his own works 
and meeting everywhere with unhoped-for success. 
His genius lay exactly parallel with the Teutonic 
spirit ; unlike most Frenchmen, he worshiped the 
musical gods of Germany, and his fount of in- 
spiration in Shakspere was one they had been 
taught to revere by their own great lights of 
romanticism. In every city he had the musical 
world at his feet, and in many places the king, 
the princes, and the court testified their apprecia- 
tion of his genius, as in Saxony, Prussia, and 

It was not strange that Berlioz should regard 
Germany as the home of his soul. In Dresden he 
met Richard Wagner, who had just received the 
appointment of assistant leader of the orchestra to 
the King of Saxony. Wagner assisted Berlioz 
with his rehearsals, and in return received a 
meed of appreciation and friendly criticism from 
the French composer which was doubly signifi- 
cant, coming from an inhabitant of that musical 
world of Paris which had been so inhospitable to 
Wagner during his residence in the French capital, 
and remembered him only as the author of some 
articles published in a musical paper. It was at 
this time that "Rienzi" and the "Flying Dutch- 
man" were receiving their first representations. 
The influence of Wagner is somewhat noticeable 
in a certain philosophic and intellectual treatment 
of the themes of some of Berlioz's later works, 
among others the "Damnation of Faust," com- 
posed during his second journey through Ger- 

many and the Austrian Empire, and produo 
upon his return to Paris in 1846. 

Berlioz's progress through these various countri 
was a veritable triumph, paralleled only, in tl 
personal honors shown him, by the career of tl 
Abb6 Liszt, whose friend he was. What a coi 
trast with the life of the poor unknown boy, wh 
had eaten his scanty dinner of dry bread an 
raisins at the foot of the statue of Henri Quatrt 
on the Pont Neuf, of Paris, brooding over th 
refusal of his work, and the judgment of failur 
passed upon himself, and the mother's curse whicl 
had followed him from the little town in the hear 
of France! Berlioz was, personally, of anything 
but a patient disposition, but the history of hi* 
life and development is surely a valuable example 
of the genius of patience. 

In the following year he went to Russia, and 
gave concerts in all the principal cities. The 
remainder of his life was passed principally in 
Paris, composing gperas and cantatas, and works 
in other forms. His domestic relations were un- 
happy. Both his marriages contained an element 
of discord. The death of his only son, as old age 
crept over him, was the last drop of bitterness in 
his cup. His grand opera of the " Trojans" was, 
in the popular sense, a failure. The sense of the 
inappreciation of his countrymen preyed more 
keenly upon him as he grew older. He demanded 
a great national recognition, for which the flattery 
of musical dilettanti and amateurs could not com- 
pensate him. In the apathy of soul which seized 
upon him his thoughts turned to Germany as to 
the true fatherland of his genius. 

In his latter years he went once more to Russia, 
at the invitation of the Grand Duchess Helena, 
and the Russian court heaped honors upon his 
head. The sadness and bitter loneliness of his 
last" years recall the later days of his friend Heine. 
Berlioz's genius died a slow death, settling by 
degrees into a torpor and apathy from which no 
enthusiasm had power to arouse him. Heine's 
body withered away under the slow disease that 
held him fast. 

Berlioz died in 1869. His funeral was attended 
by all the musicians of Paris, but it is doubtful 
whether they realized the greatness of the loss to 
French musical art or the place that Berlioz's 
music would take in the future. He has been 
dead too short a time for the world to measure 
him properly. In approaching a colossal statue, 



one sees only the limbs that support it. Only 
distance can give it full perfection. 

Berlioz stands alone in the history of music. 
The child of Gluck, Beethoven, and Weber on 
the one hand, of Shakspere and Goethe on the 
other, baptized with the blood and the fire of fifty 
years of France, he admits of no comparison 
with another mortal. 

It remains to consider the " Damnation of 
Faust," probably the most characteristic of Ber- 
lioz's works, and the only one as yet given 
in America. Berlioz calls it a musical legend. 
During his trip through Germany the influence of 
Shakspere upon the composer's mind gave place 
to that of Goethe. He chanced to read Goethe's 
"Faust." It struck a responsive chord in his 
soul. During his second journey through Ger- 
many he studied the local color, the various types 
of humanity introduced into the poem, and the 
scenes from which Goethe drew his inspirations. 
Perhaps, too, as he grew in maturity and conse- 
quent bitterness and disappointment, the naive 
sublimity and primitive strength of Shakspere gave 
place to the introspective doubting and question- 
ing of Faust, the despair of mind and soul, the 
moral lassitude and recklessness, that led to his 
compact with Mephistopheles. It is noteworthy, 
as characteristic of the bent of his genius, that he 
alters the text of the poem to suit his design of 
the eternal misery of Faust. In Goethe's poem 
Faust is redeemed from the power of Satan. The 
hopeless bitterness of Berlioz's tortured soul is 
here fully expressed. Never did the fatal problem 
of humanity presented in the poem receive so faith- 
ful an interpretation as at the hands of Berlioz. 
Faust might be the composer himself, and the 
progress of the legend the history of his own 
mental and moral nature. None but an accom- 
plished musician can rightly appreciate the mag- 
nificent orchestral and choral combinations of the 
work; but any powerful nature, of artistic instincts 
and a soul that can suffer and enjoy, can recognize 
the superb human significance of this musical cycle 
of pleasure and pain, of rapture and despair. 

One of the earliest numbers in the legend is the 
song and dance of the peasants in the fields, for 
chorus and orchestra, — a most charming pastoral. 
Then follows the stirring march as the soldiers file 
past, awakening the melancholy Faust from his 
meditations. This is a paraphase of a Hungarian 
national march, and one of the most inspiriting 

movements ever composed. Berlioz wrote it the 
night before leaving Vienna for Pesth, and before 
its introduction into the " Faust" it was played in 
his concerts in Hungary with the greatest applause, 
and was demanded again and again by the enthu- 
siastic people. It introduced the noises of battle, 
cannon, musketry, trumpets, drums, the shrieks of 
the wounded, the tread of soldiery, the tiamping 
of horses, the triumphal shout of victory. What 
wonder that the smouldering, revolutionary fire of 
the Hungarian people, burning with hatred of the 
Austrian, should, so near to the critical period of 
'48, have vented itself in a frenzy of delight, and 
have hailed the French composer as a herald of 
freedom? After the concert, a poorly-dressed 
man came to him, tremulous with emotion, "You 
are a Frenchman, a revolutionist ; you know how 
to write music for revolutions !" 

The song of Faust follows, and then comes the 
scene with Mephistopheles. Probably the most 
striking of the solo portions are those assigned to 
Mephistopheles, in which it seems as though all 
Berlioz's pent-up soul found an utterance in bitter- 
ness and scorn. His "Song of the Flea," with 
its grotesque pizzicato notes, illustrative of the 
movements of the insect, is one of the most sin- 
gular things ever composed. The " Song of the 
Rat," sung by a student, is equally picturesque, 
with the strange, squeaking noises and hurried 
scrambling of the violins. The student's chorus 
is a musical satire, — a burlesque on the fugue, — a 
form of composition particularly detested by Ber- 
lioz. Marguerite's "King of Thule" has the 
archaic form of the popular ballad music that has 
been handed down from the Middle Ages among 
the German peasantry. 

All the scenes between Faust and Marguerite 
are of surpassing sweetness, and the character of 
Marguerite is interpreted by Berlioz as Goethe 
conceived it, — a simple village maiden of no great 
intensity or tragic quality, crushed by a weight of 
suffering and despair which she is too ignorant to 
understand; the victim of fatality, bruised to 
death in the remorseless course of Faust's search 
for experience. It is more a philosophic than a 
dramatic characterization. 

The whole comprehension of the poem is 
remarkable in a man who was German only in 
sympathy. It is a shining example of the univer- 
sal intuition of genius. The most exquisite thing 
in the legend is the "Dance of the Sylphs," a 



thing that sparkles like the finest thread of cob- 
web hung with dew-drops in the moonlight. AH 
the strange and lovely visions that beset Faust on 
all sides are reproduced with a supernatural beauty. 
By degrees the graceful, airy notes die out of the 
music, the love and youth depart, the gay songs 
and choruses, the stirring ambition of the march, 
the passion and longing of Marguerite's garden 
disappear forever, and Faust is left alone with his 
soul and his tempter. The music becomes stormy, 
defiant, fierce. The approach of eternal misery. 

the human remorse and agony, are indicated in 
the wailing and shrieking of the instruments. All 
the wildest passions of humanity seem let loose 
upon the world. Here occur the finest effects of 
the score. One superb climax follows another, to 
the everlasting torment of the finale, and the 
mind and ear at last, unable to resolve the chaos 
of sound into order, call in the aid of the imagi- 
nation and interpret the musical problem before 
them as the mirror and expression of the Titanic 
tortured soul of Hector Berlioz. 

By Annie M. Harper. 

In our last article we devoted ourselves mainly 
to the subject of art needlework as applied to em- 
broidery. We shall resume the subject with some 
additional suggestions on 
embroidery-work, and then 
take up crochet-work 

The object of working 
art embroidery should be 
either to represent nature 
as accurately as may be, 
or go at once to the for- 
malities of ecclesiastical or 
conventional work; but 
intermediate styles are not 
admissible in strictly art 

needlework. When undertaking a piece of work, 
sec that you have sufficient of all shades to finish, 
or you may possibly [■■■ mortified to find that you 
cannot match any exhausted shade. This is ac- 
counted for by the fact that when a batch of crewels 
has been dyed, the vats are emptied, and the next 
installment cannot be expected to correspond ex- 
exactly with another. 

One of the accomplishments which every lady 
should learn and try to excel in is the ability to 
mark well in indelible ink. Clothes of every kind, 
and particularly handkerchiefs, are constantly in 
danger of being lost; and there is no security so 
great against their total loss as an intelligible 
mark. An embroidered wreath with the name in 
ink is very handsome, and so is one all embroid- 
ered. The stitch used in embroidery is the same 
as for any fine muslin work. After acquiring the 

necessary knowledge for marking in ink, a little 
careful practice will enable a lady to copy any 
beautiful embroidery pattern in ink, even to close 
the shading with the pen. 
Embroidered handker- 
chiefs look very beautiful 
alien the corner contain- 
ing the name is marked in 
ink with a corresponding 
design; for instance, the 
embroidery may contain 
roses, pinks, etc., or a set 
paticrn of block-work or 
scrolls. If the corner con- 
taining the name is marked 
to correspond, it makes the handkerchief very 
elegant. The name can be written in the leaf 
or in the flower. 

The drift of the feminine mind, it may be 
remarked, has of late years been inclined more 
and more to fancy needlework, as is fully demon- 
strated by the great craze for novel and unique 
designs. The demand for these is daily increas- 
ing, and art and fashion journals are taxing their 
utmost to keep up the supply. But as we have 
previously stated, wc should not alone devote 
ourselves to the execution of art needlework after 
copied designs, but originate designs as well. It is 
the importance of this fact that we would impress 
most forcibly upon our needlcworkers. It is signi- 
ficant of false taste and consequent decadence in 
any art when it becomes imitative of another, or 
even when it is merely suggestive of the forms 



and designs only suitable for other materials and 
other manipulation. It would be well, therefore, 
if ladies would devote a little more time and 

attention to producing some original designs; a 
piece of work, for instance, thai might be seen 
and gazed upon with pleasure in the far time to 
come. A handsome memento of the nineteenth 
century might be constructed without any diffi- 
culty, that would be esteemed with admiration 
by future generations, — a piece of carpeting, an 
embroidered curtain, a quilt, or indeed what 
not; and such a design as would vie with, if nut 
excel, anything produced in the past might easily 
be obtained, specially prepared by some of the 
very clever amateur designers of the present time. 
We observe that among feminine occupations 
painting is becoming more and more fashionable, 
being introduced almost everywhere, in toilette as 
largely as in decorative work. Crests, flowers, 
and numerous devices continue to be scattered 
on ribbons, buttons, satchels, gloves, shoes, muffs, 
hoods, etc. Even the once snowy table-cloths 
receive their touches of color to blend with the 
china service. Lace, velvet, satin, kid, leather, 
coarse canvas, pottery, and glass are all mediums 
for the artistic mania. In fact, painting has been 
appropriated to items as trivial as garters. By 
reason of this craze, art needlework somewhat loses 
in favor, and its best artists think it more refined 
to display their talent by the brush than by the 
needle. The result, as easily guessed, is here, as 

other at their own sweet will; but the bread- 
winner should surely mark out a path for herself, 
and persevere in it. Instead of running after all 
the whims of fashion, why not, for instance, take 
up with industrial designing,— a reliable occupa- 
tion, well reuumerated, and free, as yet, from 
almost any competition. 

We notice that the great feature in the embroid- 
ery line this season is the lavish use of gold thread, 
either as an outline .or filling in, for both home 
and dress purposes. Singly or twofold, the 
metallic thread meanders around crewel or silk 
flowers, birds, deer, tigers, insects, etc., and fur- 
ther defines veinings, limbs, paws, and, in short, 
any [joint requiring relief. It is also intertwisted 
with gold silk cord, an edging very much in 
requisition for heavy hangings in twill silk, satin, 
velvet, cloth, or serge. Some of these cords are 
nearly as thick as a little finger, and agree with 
character of the gold embroidery they 

everywhere else, a superabundant supply, which 
directly lowers the price. Independent ladies and 
jack*- of all-trades may shift from one pursuit to the 

adorn. The glittering thread also traces delicate 
scrolls on various knicknacks, as blotting-pads, 
satchels, stationery -boxes, bellows, table-screens, 
together with plastrons anil facings for dressings. 
Lines of gold curiously lend lustre to the rustic 
chair-backs, in coarse linen, oatmeal, and sheet 
ing, with their rough crewel patterns. Gloves and 
shoes are favorite objects for gold-lh read ornament; 
in some of the latter mother-of pearl spangles are 
intermixed. All the stylish winter shoes are now 
being prepared with somewhat of this handsome 
character. Loose gold chain-stitch and open links 
carry out many of the effective designs wrought 
on scarfs, bands, robings, cuffs, lace, etc., and 
enhance most fittingly the Oriental hues of the 
leading dress fabrics; indeed, it is to the preva- 
lent taste for Eastern manufactures that we owe the 
vogue of bright garish tints and metallic thread. 



It is well known that an immense deal of gold 
embroidery prevails in Eastern countries, and 


from this source are mostly obtained the ideas after 
which our modern designs are drawn. Eastern 
needlework is now most prominent in the embel- 
lishment of drawing-rooms, and even occasionally 
of ladies' attire. Large straight pieces appear, in 
all their varied beauty, as double portieres, panels, 
screens, fire-place and piano draperies, mantel 
valances, etc. Smaller remnants do service as 
cushion-covers and chair-backs, or are cut into 
strips to be daintily applied as borders ti table- 
covers and curtains. The veriest scraps, too, 
compose interesting little doilys. dice-shaped 
patches for hand-screens, etc. 

Ladies who possess i|uite a collection of Oriental 
embroideries sometimes employ their imaginative 
skill in arranging them for the ornament of entire 
suits. We have seen boudoirs fitted up in this 
style; handsome cashmere shawls and loose In- 
dian drawers were cleverly turned to account for 
hangings and folding-screens, while the rich 

needlework of gauze vests and scarfs figured plen- 
tifully in the lighter trifles of the apartment, 
as, for instance, the window valance, curiously 
stretched behind the curtains, together with squares 
and rectangles placed corner-wise over lounges, 
cushions, and foot-stools. We have noticed that 
even the heavy Scinde rugs are adapted in this 
wise to furniture upholstered in plush. One large 
rug, for instance, covers the back and seat of the 
sofa, the curved borders and elbows, if any, being 
in plush, red, peacock-blue, or dark-green, ac- 
cording to the prevalent color of the Oriental 
mat. Smaller rugs are distributed on the easy- 
chairs, as well as the quaint three-cornered ones; 
the squares for the backs being set in straight, 
and those for the seats in diamond fashion. 

The brightly-tinted work and the time-mellowed 
grounds of these open-meshed Oriental fabrics 
impart a great similarity to their appearance ; but 
the connoisseur will generally discover in each 
some characteristic which betrays its origin. Even 
the stitches form an interesting study, although as 
yet they have not tempted many imitators. These 
peculiar stitches are not at all difficult, but ihey 
are so cunningly altered in slope and tightness 
that the filling-in of a single flower will present a 
.wonderfully-diversified aspect. Such varied fill- 
ing-in is specially noticeable in some of the leaves 
;ind blossoms of Persian work, the surface of which 
is covered with compact stitchery of two different 

kinds of sloped lines, cordonnct alternating with 
back -stitching. The former occupies three threads 



in width and slants one thread, and the latter takes 
three threads in length. This gives a straight 
linear stitch following an oblique direction, and 

worked next to a wider stitch sloping in the 
reverse way. The disposition of these raised and 
sunken stripes, more or less loose, imparts that 
very changeful effect t» the work which suggests 
an unfounded difficulty. 

The principal points in embroidery, ii should 
be observed, are good design and good coloring 
Good coloring is so essential to a piece of 
embroidery, that, while harmonious coloring may 
atone even for faulty design, a good design will 
certainly be spoiled by vulgar coloring. As the 
coloring is a matter of so much importance, the 
embroiderer cannot be too particular in consider, 
ing it well beforehand, that all may be in har- 
mony and keeping, not only with itself, but with 
the purpose and position for which it is intended. 
As conventionalism in form is imposed upon us as 
a necessity, it also follows that the same necessity 
has to be observed in our imitation of nature with 
regard to color. This becomes apparent from the 
very outset. In many cases it is utterly impossible 
to give the natural coloring of a particular flower; 
we may, perhaps, be able to get its general tone, 
but the subtle gradations which are with difficulty 
reproduced in painting are quite out of reach in 
embroidery. The difficulty in the way is to get 
silk or wool dyed the proper shades, and even 
could this be overcome, a greater one will arise: 
that of mingling the tints, with all the delicacies 
of tones and intermixture of shade that are found 
in many flowers, without producing a confused 

decorative effect either in painting or embroidery, 
from their surroundings in the open air. There- 
fore, in adapting their color to their place in in- 
door decoration, the more subdued tints and less 
-brilliant aspect should be chosen ; for the brighter 
colors have the clear air, the sunlight, their natu- 
ral texture, and, above all, their evanescence, to 
render them delightful. The pure color alone, 
without these aids, transferred to needlework, 
would be glaring and gaudy. And as there is no 
raw color in nature, but an admixture of yellow in 
most of her hues, it is a great mistake to render 
her brilliancy, which is chiefly owing to subtle 
qualities of texture, by raw and gaudy silks and 

and unsatisfactory effect. And there is another 
consideration. It must be remembered how dif- 
ferent are the surroundings of flowers, as used for 

wiiul-, which smite the eye without pleasing the 
sense. It being impossible, therefore, to repro- 
duce the fluctuating iridescence of natural flowers, 
it is better to take nature as a suggestive guide 
rather than as a pattern for servile copying, and 
to choose colors with regard to their general har- 
mony rather than their separate exact truth to 

Embroidery is a decora t 
fore, must be regulated by t 

work, and, there- 
rules of decorative 
s one of the first 
considerations, the attempt to combine a close 
imitation of nature in color with conventionalism 
in /arm would be a fatal error. Consistency of 
treatment must he aimed at, and, having simpli- 
fied the forms of nature, we must, for corresponding 


reasons, simplify the colors also. Color is so 
much a matter of feeling, and of so subtle a nature, 

that only the most general rules can be safely ■ 
given, and even these more as guides than as laws \ 
to be implicitly obeyed. Shades and tones arc j 
so varied and uncertain that it is impossible to 
describe them in words; the eye must be educated 
to appreciate them, and to learn their combina- 
tions and effects, which in the descript 
so easily misapprehended. A master of 
color will produce harmonies where, 
with the same materia Is, an other would 
only produce discords. 

With these plain yet suggestive hints 
on this subject, we pass to that of 
crochet -work. Some persons have 
come to the erroneous conclusion 
that crochet is out of fashion, be- 
cause the commoner sorts are no 
longer displayed as worthy of admi- f 
ration, or, indeed, much esteemed. 
The reason is not because embroidery 
and point-tare work have been intra- "*"- 

duced, but because Fancy-work itself 
has received the impel tis of improve- 
ment, and ladies now display real works ol art as 
the product of the needle. Crochet will always 

hold its place as an art of needlework, but it is 
the rich raised-work in stars or flowers, or the 
delicate tracery of the Irish lace, which is valued. 
Any one who can work simple crochet patterns 
well and quickly, may readily learn to work the 
Irish lace, which is neither difficult nor tedious, 
being so much made up of mere chain-stitch. 

Crochet has the following advantages over knit 
ting. First, you see your pattern as you work it, 
and are aware with what exact intention every 
stitch is put in ; secondly, with close observa- 
tion, any piece of work can be copied by looking 
at it ; thirdly, it is hardly possible to drop a stitch ; 
fourthly, much more beautiful and artistic work 
can be produced by this method of working. 

The best practice for learning to work crochet 
well, having mastered the several stitches in 
cotton, is to buy a bone crochet-hook, and an 
ounce of double wool, and make a pair of cuffs 
in double crochet. To do this, work a chain, 
and unite it in a ring by working a plain stitch 
through the first one of the chain. When united 
the chain must be more than large enough to slip 
over the hand by about six stitches, because it 
shrinks in size in working. On this chain work 
round ami round plain double crochet stitches. 
Work another pair of these cuffs in triple crochet, 
and a third pair in plain crochet. It is better to 
practice at first in wool, because beginners are apt 
to draw up the cotton too tight, and so be unable 
to work a second row on the first one. Wool 
requires a lighter touch, and shows immediately 
any irregularity in H>e stitches. We recommend 

this advisedly, for, it you at once proceed to 
work from paper patterns, you will be liable to 


acquire a mannerism in your work, and be unable ' Premising that most of your readers are con- 
afterward to execute either round or square patterns versant with the several stitches, we have not 
with any degree of success or of satisfaction to deemed it necessary to explain each particular 

As directions for this kind of work are usually 
given in abbreviated forms, we would furnish 
our reader with their significations, so that thuy 
may more readily comprehend them. Ch. stands 
for chain ; p. c, plain crochet ; d. c, double cro- 

kind of stitch in this class of art needlework, 
preferring to offer such suggestions only as might 
prove a valuable auxiliary to those already some- 
what proficient therein. 

We offer with the present number some addi- 
tional designs for needlework, both in embroidery 

chet; tr., triple crochet, or long stitch ; dot, this 
is only worked in the centre of a chain. Thus, 
"five chain, dot, five chain," means five chain, 
work three more chain for the dot, and one plain 
into the last stitch of the five, to make a little dot. 
Or, in other words, you must make eight chain 
and one plain, four stitches back from the needle, 
or the fifth stitch from commencement. Make 
five more chain. This is only used in the modern 
at guipure crochet, and Irish crochet lace. 

mil crochet, with directions in a general way for 
.vorking them. The designs are very tasty, and 
ipplied to the purposes named will give to the 
worker very beautiful specimens of her handi- 

Fig. i) represents a 
embroidery. The cu 
a piece of congress 
Work the cent 

th ; 

i cushion, in cross-stitch 
u is of red satin, and has 
was, eoiikur tin mode. 
simple drawn-work pat- 

n; outside of this make a cross-stitch border, 


and a figure in each corner. This is done with 
red silk, and the scalloped edging and tassels are 
of the same color. 

Fig. 10 represents a hair-pin cushion, in fan- 
faisie work. For the framework make an open 
box of card-board, cover the bottom with gray 
linen, and the sides with Burgundy red plush ; for 
the top knit two square pieces with very thick 
needles, and stretch them evenly over the box, 
which must first be filled with horse-hair; the 
first sipiare i lower one] is of Burgundy red zephyr; 
the upper one, as seen in Fig. n, is of two shades 
of olive-green crewel, which are knit in alternate 
rows. Fig. rz shows the natural size of the fringe 
bordir, which is made by taking siv threads of 
olive-green crewel, and knotting these together with 
four of black cotton; these four threads arc (hen 
used, two by two, to fasten the loops. I'nitc two 
rows of such fringe, so that the loops meet, as in 
Fig. 10, and cast in a k\v loops of the red silk. 
Finish with an old-gold ribbon with cross stitch 

Fig. i 3 represents a (lower-pot cover, in fanhmit 
work. Kmbroider a border and ruche i like lam- 
brequin j for the tup. The narrow borders are 
linen or satin kinds, embroidered with cotton or 
cordonnet siik ; the kinds are put on the pot slant- 
ingly, so as to cross each other ; they are embroid- 
ered, and are finished in Armenian lace; two 

stitches in the edge of the ribbon are required, 
and the thread is drawn through between the two 
stitches, which makes the point; for the next 
draw the needle through the ribbon, and by this 
obtain the long thread. For the larger points, 
make three stitches into the edge of the ribbon, 
draw back the thread between the first and second, 
work another stitch between second and third, 
then catch both threads, and work another be- 
tween the two stitches in the second row. Sew 
these stripes on your cover with invisible stitches. 
The ruche at the top is of the same material, 
and is scalloped and box-plaited. This ruche 
should be lined. 

Fig. 14 represents a Pompadour, used as a work 
or chatelaine bag. Either white, black, or colored 
satin may be used for this, but it must be lined 
with a thin silk of the same shade. If cut in one 
piece, the lining must be fourteen inches long 
anil seven inches wide. The bag is seven long ; 
seven inches at the bottom and five inches wide 
at the top. The satin must be twenty-three inches 
long if the bag is cut in one piece, in order to 
puff it on the lining. A narrow plaiting of the 
same goods trims the top and the sides. Place a 
narrowband of embroidered velvet, one inch wide, 
between the bag and the plaiting, and also down 

the rent re u( the bag. The centre stripe holds the 
puffing in place and is fastened with fine gold or 
strong silk cord. Then sew the bag together, until 



within an inch of the top, which is kept stiff by 
means of an inserted whalebone. A double cord 
for a handle, and tassels to match, will give an 
elegant finish. For the embroidery wc give the 
designs shown in Figs. 15 and 16. 

Figs. 17 and 18 represent a satchel in embroidery 
and knotted-work. For the making of this satchel, a 
piece of card-board twenty-five inches high and 
sixteen inches wide is required. This piece is 
sloped off two inches on each side. It is then 
covered on the outside with gray linen, which 
previously has been embroidered, as shown by 
the illustration. The middle has an insertion of 
knotted-work (Macrame) underlaid with satin. 
The inside is lined with gray satinet. Between 
the outside and the lining the side parts are 
inserted ; they are gathered on the top by means 
of an elastic cord. The silk bag is then added 
and furnished with a shirr, into which gray silk 
tape is run. Fig. 18 gives the knotted-work in 
full size. The embroidery may either be worked 
with shaded crewel- work or floss- si Ik in chain- 
stitch. The larger figures are further ornamented 
with a few fancy stitches. A narrow serpentine 
braid is used to edge the satchel. 

Fig. 19 represents a coffee cozy, in crochet cross- 
stitch and loose embroidery. Crochet four plain 
light-gray stripes in Afghan stitch, then embroider 
each stripe with three bouquets in olive-color crewel 
and pale-blue floss-silk, while the narrow stripes 
done in flake-stitch must be dark-red (Burgundy). 
Each light stripe must be commenced with thirty 
stitches; then work forty-seven rows. In the next 
thirteen rows drop a stitch at the beginning and 
at -the end of each row. In the fourteenth row 
drop three stitches, and then continue by drop- 
ping one stitch until you have no more on your 
needle. On the plain gray stripe crochet a dark- 
red border in the flake-stitch. Then crochet all 
the stripes together. Crochet two rows of single 
stitch around the cozy; in the third row the flakes 
must be made. They are separated by a single 
crochet. For the flake, wrap the thread around 
needle, skip the next stitch of the last row, and 
under that stitch in the second last row draw a 
long loop, repeat twice into the same, then wrap 
thread around the needle, and draw all the threads 
together. The next four rows are done in single 
crochet, repeating the flakes. Crochet small scallop 
around the cozy. Top centre is closed by crochet 
button with loop, on which you can hang the cozy. 



Fig. 20 represents a taboret made out of an old 
chest or trunk, with tapestry and appliqui work. 
These old things can be used as ottomans, and 
at the same time as receptacles for larger pieces 
of work that find no room in the sewing-basket. 
The lid has a cushion three inches high, covered 
with applique work on Pekin canvas, which is 
made in stripes by embroidering four-inch-wide 
stripes with blue silk. It must be done so as to 
give the canvas the appearance of having the silk 
woven into it. On the striped ground work the 
applique, and fill the plain stripe with gay tapestry 
embroidery, which, when done in old-gold, gives 
a beautiful effect; for the middle pieces take old- 
gold damask brocade, and for the side pieces 
plain brocade. Embroider the damask brocade 
in satin -stitch, with dark-red and pale-yellow to 
heighten the beauty. The stems of the wheat 
should be done in brown silk, and fine, dark- 
red cord mark the grains of wheat lying closely 
together. The stamens work should he in yellow 
silk, with their points in red. The lid is edged 
with a border in embroidery, the corners orna- 
mented with handsome tassels made of rich colors. 
Properly worked and arranged, this will afford a 
very handsome and useful household article. 

Figs. 21 and 22 represent a paper basket, with 
a crochet of twine. Rough brown twine, colored 
floss-silk, and crewel are the materials used for 
the two lambrequins, which are fastened between 
the ring-handles of the basket. Each lambrequin 
consists of five stars, and the borders crossing each 
other. Stars and borders are crocheted with twine, 
the wrong side of the crochet being used for the 
right, and is embroidered with loose stitches in 
silk and wool. Fig. 22 shows a star of the natural 
size, and the embroidery in silk and crewel, not 
quite finished, so that the crochet pattern can be 
seen. It is commenced in the middle by a ring 
of right chains; each star is embroidered with a 
different colored silk in two shades. To unite the 
border and stars, baste them right side down on 
card-board, then sew them together, after taking 
off the card-board, which consists of scallops. In 
the lower part of the lambrequin insert the fringe 
in the scallops. The fringe consists of tassels, 
separated by two or three knotted strains, and is 
made of twine and crewel. The basket is lined 
with dark-red satin, and the top has an embroidery 
of three twisted colored threads. Place bows of 
satin ribbon at the handles. 




By George Bancroft Griffith. 

Not one-half the people who witness the launch- 
ing of a vessel can tell how it is done. They hear 
a great sound of pounding and driving of wedges 
for half an hour or so, then a loud shout is raised, 
and the ship starts slowly at first, but, gradually 
increasing her speed, slides with a steady, stately 
motion from off the pile of timber and blocks 
where she has been standing for months; and 
where, but a moment before, the huge creature 
towered aloft, nothing remains but a dtbris of 
timber and planks, while out on the water floats 
one of the most graceful works of man. 

When the ship is about ready to launch, her 
immense weight rests principally upon blocks 
some eight or ten inches square on the ends, and 
perhaps some fifteen or eighteen inches in length. 
These blocks are placed directly under the keel, 
and in order to launch the vessel it is necessary to 
transfer the weight of the vessel to the ways, — two 
long lines of heavy timber reaching about two- 
thirds the length of the vessel on either side, and 
about midway the bilge or bottom. These ways 
are simply two lengths of limber with a thick 

layer of grease between them, so that as soon as 
the ship acquires any momentum they will slip one 
along the other. To transfer the weight of the 
vessel on to these ways so that gravity — the stem 
or heaviest part of the vessel being much lower 
than the bow — will cause her to move, is the whole 
secret of launching. To do this, between the top 
of the ways and the vessel are driven pine wedges, 
which, of course, raise her somewhat, and so re- 
lieve the blocks under the keel of part of the 
weight resting upon them. This done, workmen 
take their places under the vessel, and with iron 
wedges cut and knock away the blocks. When 
these are removed, the entire weight of the vessel 
settles at once upon the greased ways, and the 
result is exactly the same as- would be if a person 
should seat himself upon a sled pointing downhill 
upon an icy slope — away she goes ! 

There seems to be a strange sort of fascination 
for most people in the launching of a large vessel, 
and in our ship-building ports it is not uncommon 
for a thousand persons to be present to enjoy the 


By H. F. G. 

With pitiless rigor rules the stern Frost King, 

A fierce usurper he, who punishes 

With death, and death-like sleep, and banishment, 

The loyal subjects of sweet Summer's reign. 

The plashing waters, that erst danced for glee, 

He fetters in an icy prison, where, 

Their laughter and their lisping all forgot, 

They lie a- cold and mute. He slays the flowers, 

Scatters the leaves in death, and all the bird* 

He exiles, save wee somber-coated sprites 

Who know to chirp naught but a feeble note; 

For music loves he not, except the kind 

The tempests make, when loud they flap their wings, 

And fly abroad to do his stern behests. 

But what of the fair (jueen now robbed of crown? 
Think'st thou. Frost King, that thou hast slain her too, 
And wrapped her in her winding-sheet for aye, 
And car v en icy immortelles to deck 
Her lust repose ? And think'st thou the rude chill 

; Of pallid snow, like marble of a tomb, 

Is evidence that she will wake no more ? 

Look up ! See where the sun his chariot drives 
! Along the azure fields ! mark well his course ! 

See how he mounts ! Higher he rides to-day. 
: And later than last evening he will reach 
! The western gateway o'er yon snow-capped hill. 
, Kach day the shadowy minions of thy realms 

'I hat morn and eve beset his path he'll rout, 

Till one sweet morn he'll come, like Frince of old, 

To kiss the Sleeping Beauty on her lips. 

Then, stern usurper, will thy harsh reign cease ; 

Then, conjurer, shall thy spell lose all its power; 

The ice -bonds shall be loosed ! And while thou steal 'st, 

In gloom and silence, to the frozen North, 

To work thy will among its solitudes, 

Thy captive, with a face made wondrous fair, 

By fair and wondrous dreams of nearing Spring, 

Shall wake to find that her sweet dreams are true. 




By Frances E. Wadleigh. 

The balmy south wind breathed gently through 
the open windows, waving the lace curtains and 
filling the long low parlor with the thousand per- 
fumes of spring. The birds twittered and sang in 
the rose-bushes, the fountain danced and sparkled ; 
all nature rejoiced at its own awakening. Without, 
all was peace. 

But within, in the old Griffith homestead, there 
was not peace, but rather discord. One glance 
at Frank Leigh ton's frowning countenance or at 
Olive Griffith's determined features told that very 
plainly; you would hardly need to listen to their 
conversation to know that there was at least a 
vigorous dispute, if not an open rupture, between 

"What else can I do?" Olive was saying for 
the fifth or sixth time. " I promised papa that I 
would be a sister to them. 1 ' 

" When you gave that promise, both you and 
he supposed that they had money enough to 
support them for a time; at least until they could 
make up their minds what to do for a living." 

" Yes, papa said that they probably had five or 
six thousand dollars; but now it seems they 
haven't as many hundreds." 

"If they had any spirit, any sense of honor, 
they would never expect you to do a thing for 
them — but there, how can one expect honor in 
any Lavergne!" 

Frank was bitter ; a Lavergne, an uncle of the 
two girls in question, had once defrauded him of 
every dollar he possessed, and he hated the very 
name ; he despised all who bore it. 

" If you were not going abroad, we might 
all live together for awhile," suggested Olive. 

" Indeed, we might not ! Amy I could look on 
almost as my sister; she is very like you, and is 
your half-sister; but Hortense and Regina can 
never live under the same roof with me. And 
then I must go abroad ; my small salary will not 
allow me to lose such a chance to improve my 
pecuniary prospects. No, there is no way, that / 
can see, of your being my wife and still taking 
care of them." 

" Couldn't they board with Eva?" cried Olive, 
as if she had settled the difficulty. 
Vol. XVI.— io 

"No!" replied Frank, angrily. "My sister 
doesn't take boarders; and if she did, I would 
not choose those girls as her first boarders." 

"As you please." 

Frank, like most men, could not jump at a con- 
clusion very readily; Olive could. Like a flash 
it had revealed itself to her that if Hortense and 
Regina were boarding with Mrs. Eva Corbett, 
Frank's widowed sister, the fvs^ or six hundred 
that she would receive from them would relieve 
him from the necessity of paying her the three 
hundred a year which he now did out of his mod- • 
erate salary, would provide a home for the girls, 
and leave Olive free to join Frank. 

Leighton did not understand Olive's proposal ; 
he was disappointed and angry because she had 
told him that she could not carry out their plans, — 
that she could not marry him and go abroad with 

" If you cared very much about me, Olive, you 
would find some means of keeping your promise 
to me as well as that to your father. Those girls 
have no claim on you, your step-mother's daugh- 
ters by a former marriage. Rent your house, give 
Hortense and Regina to understand that they 
must shift for themselves, and come with me." 

Now, if Frank had made a petition of that 
instead of a command, if he had put his arm 
tenderly around her and had uttered those last 
three words in the tone of a true lover, not of a 
stern master, the probability is that Olive would 
have explained her proposition that they should 
board with Eva, and that Frank would have 

But he was angry, and she was tired and un- 
nerved ; her father had been dead but three 
months, and since his death she had had a great 
deal of care, not the least of which was the thought 
of the future of Hortense and Regina, when she 
discovered that they had been allowed by their 
indulgent mother to squander the small property 
left by their father, and when she learned that 
they knew of her promise to her father and 
expected her to keep it to the fullest extent. 

"What is the use of going all over it again? 
I cannot break ray promise to papa," answered 



she so wearily that at any other time Frank 
would have pitied her. 

"Say rather that you will not !" he exclaimed. 

She made no reply. She said to herself, " I 

will not argue any more now; perhaps when we 

have both thought it over calmly, one of us can 

suggest some way out of our difficulty." 

"Very well," continued Frank, as he sprang 
to his feet ; " if you will not do this for my sake, 
if you will not consider me as well as those girls, 
your love for me cannot be very deep. I am glad 
I have found out, before marriage, how little heart 
you have." 

Olive was so amazed that she did not interrupt 
him ; indeed, while he was speaking she hardly 
comprehended the full force of his words. 

"You will not consent to give up Hortense and 
Regina; I will not consent to play second fiddle 

to them or any one else. If you " 

"Why, Frank, what do you mean?'* 
"That our engagement has evidently been a 
great mistake, and our professed love entirely one- 

"So it would seem," answered Olive, bitterly; 
but to Frank's dull ears her voice sounded only 
indifferent ; he answered : 

"Then you really will not marry me and go to 
France with me?" 

"I cannot — not now." 

In his excitement he did not understand, per 
haps hardly heard, the last two words. He replied, 
firmly : 

" Then that ends the matter. I will never ask 
you again. I want no half-hearted wife. Good- 

And without one more glance at her he was 

Olive could not believe that his anger would 
last long; yet while it did continue she could say 
or do nothing new. 

The girls referred to, Hortense and Regina 
Lavergne, were six and five years old when their 
widowed mother became Mr. Griffith's second 
wife ; their father, a Frenchman, was a visionary 
but talented man, and by no means domestic ; his j 
daughters inh< rited his visionary disposition, but 
only in a slight degree his talents. They were 
pleasant, good-natured, and bright, and were 
almost like sisters to Olive, who was just between 
them in age. Mrs. Griffith had died but a year 
before Olive's father, and left one child by her 

second marriage, Amy, now twelve years old. 
She was kind to Olive, making no difference 
between her and her own children, and was sin- 
cerely mourned at her death. Had she been the 
traditional step mother, perhaps Olive would not 
have felt so much bound to Hortense and Regina. 

This quarrel with Frank, though she did not 
believe it a serious one, set Olive thinking, and 
the result of her deliberations was that though she 
did not feel obliged to support Hortense and 
Regina in idleness all their lives, or until they 
married, they evidently expected her to do so. 
In justice to herself and to Frank she could not 
permit this; even Amy had no legal claim upon 
her fortune, as it had been bequeathed to her by 
her maternal grandfather after her mother's death. 
She determined to talk with Hortense, the more 
sensible of the two, and delicately hint to her that 
as she was twenty-two years old, and her sister 
but eighteen months her junior, she was quite old 
enough to take care of herself and induce Regina 
to do the same. 

After supper that evening, as the four girls were 
sitting chatting in the soft twilight, Olive said : 

" I think, girls, that we may as well discuss our 
future plans now as at any other time. Do you 
agree with me?" 

"What plans?" asked Hortense. 

" Where do you intend to live?" 

"Why, here, I suppose!" replied Hortense; 
and Regina, opening her big black eyes to their 
widest extent, asked : 

" Where else can we go?" 

"You have two uncles; I thought " 

"Oh, it is no use to think of them, Olive," 
answered Hortense, earnestly. " Uncle Gustave 
is as poor as poverty, and Uncle Louis is travel- 
ing in Europe somewhere ; besides, his wife hates 
us, and we hate her, don't we, Regina?" 

"Thoroughly! Why, are we not to live here 
together as we've always done?" 

"You know I expect to be married soon," 
began Olive ; but Hortense interrupted her : 

"And Frank Leighton don't like us. Very 
well, we will think of something, and let you 
know our decision to-morrow. Come, Regina, 
let's go up-stairs and talk it over; if we have got 
to go away to make room for Mr. Leighton, the 
sooner we do so the better," cried Hortense. 

"Why not?" interposed clear-headed little 
Amy. " This house and its furniture are Olive's, 



the little money that papa left belongs to her and 
me, and everything eke is hers. Why should she 
support us three?" 

" There is no law compelling her to do so," 
answered Hortense, coldly; "to be sure, some 
people (not the Leighton's, however) might think 
that her promise to her father would require her 
to give us a little out of her abundance — a shelter 
over our heads, at least. Come, Regina." 

And the sisters sailed out of the room before 
Olive had a chance to say what her intentions 
might be. And indeed she hardly knew that 
herself; until after a calmer interview with Frank, 
she could not decide how much it would be best 
for her to give them, for she had never for an 
instant thought of turning them penniless out into 
the world. 

The next morning she received a parcel from 
Frank containing her letters and gifts to him, also 
a brief note, saying, that as by her own decision 
their engagement was at an end, he returned her 
letters, and presumed she would destroy or re- 
turn his. Instead of doing either, however, she 

" I have just received your note. As you say 
our engagement was canceled by my decision, I 
am sure you misunderstood me yesterday; if you 
will call this afternoon or evening,. I will 'make 
myself a little better comprehended. We were 
both somewhat worried yesterday, and perhaps I 
was less patient than I should have been." 

Addressing and stamping it, she herself dropped 
it in the post-office. 

Two days passed. Hortense had not yet an- 
nounced her decision as to the future, and no 
notice had been taken by Frank of Olive's note ; 
when twenty- four hours had thus passed, Olive 
did not know what to think. 

" Olive, I've heard such a queer piece of news," 
cried Hortense, as' she came in from a walk the 
second day. 

"What is it?" asked Olive, listlessly. 

" That Frank Leighton is engaged to Bertha 
Merrill ! I think you might have told us that you 
had broken with Frank." 

"I didn't care to discuss the matter," answered 
Olive, truthfully, yet evasively. "Who told you?" 

"His sister Eva. She is very angry; she and 
Bertha never were friends, and she says when 
Frank came and told her that you and he were 
'out' she cried like a baby. She says, 'Tell Olive 

I know it was every bit Frank's (*ult ;' she seemed 
to feel real bad." 

That evening Olive returned Frank's letters 
and gifts. 

Nothing more was said about the necessity for 
Hortense and Regina to leave her, and before the 
summer was over, both the girls were engaged to 
be married, so there was no necessity for them to 
speak again of earning their living. 

In the meantime Leighton went abroad, but 
not as Benedict ; Bertha Merrill had no notion of 
abridging her trousseau, and Frank exhibited no 
lover-like anxiety for her to do so. His engage- 
ment to Miss Merrill, a "young" lady who had 
been "out" so long that she had some reason to 
fear that she must dress St. Catherine's hair, was 
as much of a surprise to him as to his sister and 
Olive. He called upon Bertha the evening after 
his quarrel with Olive, and feeling in a reckless, 
nervous mood, had talked all manner of nonsense; 
he was not accustomed to indulge in idle badinage, 
and perhaps Bertha thought he was in earnest 
when he said that she was the only woman he 
ever loved ; perhaps she considered herself justified 
in dropping her eyes and faltering out that his 
words had made her so happy ; perhaps she was 
not trying to pin him to her when she exclaimed 
to her mother (who entered the room at that 
important crisis), "Oh, mamma, kiss me, and 
don't say no to Frank 1" 

It was an awkward predicament for poor Frank. 
Mrs. Merrill was perfectly sincere (whatever 
Bertha had been) in pouring out her happiness, 
pouring it out so volubly that Frank had no 
chance to explain. But what could he say or do? 
The Merrills were not people who could* be in- 
sulted with impunity, and it would have been 
nothing less than an insult if Frank had said, "I 
was in jest when I said I loved her." Such jests, 
were not customary. 

So the summer waned. Olive held her peace 
and grieved in secret, mourning not Frank's 
defection only, but the loss of her ideal, for the 
man to whom she had given her heart was, she 
believed, too true and too devoted to change so 
suddenly. For Bertha, wearing her honors grace- 
fully, took good care to let no one suspect, what 
she well knew, that Frank Leighton did not care 
any more for her than for twenty oth^r girls of 
his acquaintance. 

But Bertha Merrill was doomed to die unwed. 



Early in the autumn she had a severe attack of 
brain -fever, from which her body recovered, but 
her mind relapsed into hopeless idiocy. Her 
parents wrote to Frank and begged him to hasten 
home, as the physicians united in saying that the 
only hope they had of restoring any semblance of 
reason was in his presence ; if her lover's touch, 
her lover's voice, failed to rouse her dormant brain, 
then it was indeed a hopeless case. So in October 
he sailed for home ; the fact that he cared nothing 
for Bertha did not retard his return, perhaps it 
facilitated it, for, having no love to give her, he 
felt that he owed her double service. 

The second day out from Liverpool a stranger 
accosted him as he was quietly smoking his post- 
prandial cigar in the room devoted to burning 
incense to the goddess Nicotina: 

" Beg pardon, sir," said he, " I heard some one 
address you as Mr. Leigh ton. May I ask how you 
spell it?" 

Surprised, Frank informed him. 

"And your Christian name is ?" 

His interlocutor's tone robbed his words of all 
rude inquisitiveness; he answered : 
" Frank Page." 

"Yes; Frank P. Leighton, of No. 754 King 
street, New Hope." 

" Pray how did you know that?" 
The stranger opened a letter-case, and handed 
to Frank an unopened letter. 
"This is for you, I think?" 
Frank looked at him in amazement. 
"Are you Neptune's letter-carrier?" he asked. 
" For this occasion only. I don't wonder that 
your are surprised, so I will explain how I came 
by it. I have been in Russia and Sweden ever 
since last June, and my letters have sometimes 
had a hard time finding me. A few days ago, a 
week maybe, quite a number were sent me from 
Moscow ; one of them, from a friend in New 
Hope, seemed uncommonly thick. I started to 
open it, and discovered that it was two instead of 
one. My friend had sealed her letter with extra 
care — and mucilage — and your letter had fallen 
on it, face down, while the mucilage was still soft ; 
the two letters had thus become stuck together, 
and got into the foreign mail-bag as one, traveled 
half over Europe as one, and at last were separated 
by me. I trust this delay will not prove of any 
serious consequence to you. I could not help 
seeing that it was from a lady." 

It was Olive's letter, which now reached Frank 
for the first time after so long a journey. 

As he read it he cursed his own folly in having 
been so ready to judge Olive harshly. What 
could he do now? Nothing. He was pledged 
to Bertha, and was now on his way home to try 
his best to restore her to life. If he succeeded, 
as Mrs. Merrill seemed convinced he would, he 
would be more than ever bound to keep his word, 
for who could say what might be the result if he 
turned from her? And if fhe remained imbecile, 
how long would it be before he would feel justified 
in considering himself free to again woo Olive? 
Could he hope that Olive still loved him, and 
would ever be ready to listen to his apologies 
and explanations ? These and a hundred similar 
questions harassed him during the voyage. 

At last he was in New York. At last he entered 
the cars for New Hope, and there sat Olive Grif- 
fith ! Half her seat was empty, and he requested 
permission to sit beside her. He fancied that she 
changed color when she recognized him, but the 
station was dark and the car darker. After a 
few commonplace remarks on both sides, Frank 
suddenly said : 

"Olive, did you ever wonder why I did not 
reply to your last note ? why I did not visit you 
that evening?" 

" I so soon heard of your betrothal to poor 
Bertha, that I had little opportunity to wonder at 
anything else," replied Olive, trying to make her 
words sound indifferent, but an unintentional 
emphasis on the last word gave Frank courage. 

"I am not surprised that you wondered at 
that," began he; but she interrupted him : 

"I did not say that I wondered at it. Why 
should I have done so ? I trust that your return 
will prove beneficial to her." 

No reply. She continued, for silence now was 
too suggestive : 

" Eva is anxiously expecting you ; I saw her at 
the wedding last week." 

" Wedding ? Whose wedding ?" 

" A double one, that of Hortense and Regina." 

"We needn't have quarreled over their future, 
need we?" said Frank, sadly. 

Again no reply. This time it was Frank to 
bridge the silence : 

"Olive, that note of yours went to Mos- 
cow before it reached me; had I received it 



" How came it to go to Moscow?" asked Olive, 

So Frank related its wanderings, and added : 

"What a miserable fool I was? Can you for- 
give me? Can you " 

"Forgive? Oh, yes; but remember, you are 
Bertha Merrill's fiance* " 

"I will tell her all, Olive; I know she will free 
me. Then may I come to you?" Frank queried 

" It may be years before she will be sane enough 
to release you willingly and with safety to herself. 
Meantime you are bound in honor to think of no 
other woman. 1 ' 

" Must I marry a woman I do not love? Must 
I make myself wretched and — yes, I can see it 
in your face, Olive, you do love me still ! I 
cannot wreck the happiness of you and me both, 

for the sake of trying to make Bertha happy ! I 
will not! I will tell her " 

"Nothing! You will sa> nothing to her, if 
you are the honest man I think you, until you are 
sure her mind is restored. Put off your marriage, 
if you wish " 

ll Jf\ wish !" echoed Frank. 

" New Hope !" shouted the conductor, and the 
train paused at the station. 

As Frank stepped from the car, Mr. Merrill's 
book-keeper hastened to him, saying : 

" Are you come at last ! This way, I have a 
carriage here." 

" How is Bertha?" asked Olive. 

The young man hesitated. 

" How is she? She cannot be worse?" reiterated 

" No ; she died an hour ago." 


By A. L. Bassett. 

Among the royal palaces of England and France 
I found none more interesting than Fontaine- 
bleau. History has made us familiar with the 
many romantic and tragic scenes enacted within 
its walls, and fiction, with its fascinating mingling 
of truth and falsehood, has thrown its glamour 
around it ; but that which gives it its greatest 
charm is the fact that modern improvements have 
been excluded from many of its chambers and 
not allowed to sweep away with ruthless hands the 
souvenirs of those who loved, laughed, suffered, or 
reveled beneath its roof. 

After a delightful dtjeuner a la fourchette at one 
of the cafts in the Palais Royal, we hurried to the 
railway station, but arrived only in time to see 
our train slowly moving off from the platform, 
leaving us to meditate, for an hour or more, upon 
our indiscretion in lingering at table, before the 
next train bore us swiftly away from Paris toward 
the small town of Fontainebleau. At the end of 
two hours we gladly exchanged the dusty car for 
an omnibus, which conveyed us up a pretty shaded 
street to the chateau. 

Passing through an arched gateway, we entered 
a large, stone-paved court) ard and beheld the 
grand palace. It is built of glaring red brick, 

with a steep roof adorned with windows, and has 
a broad flight of stone steps leading up to the 
main entrance. No statues claimed our notice 
and made us linger in the courtyard as at Ver- 
sailles, and we entered the chateau with a feeling 
of disappointment, expecting to find the interior 
as modestly unpretending as the outer walls. We 
had only to cross the threshold and look up, to 
discover how glorious a mediaeval palace could be 
even in the comparatively primitive days of Fran- 
cis I. and Henry IV. Gilding in richest profusion 
beamed dazzlingly down upon us, and exquisitely 
frescoed faces laughed on the lofty ceilings at our 
republican ignorance and simplicity. 

The first apartment which the guide showed us 
was about fifty feet long, with its walls entirely 
covered with most beautiful miniature paintings 
on Sevres porcelain. Hours might have been 
spent in studying these petite but enchanting, 
creations of art, delicately copied by the fairy 
fingers of the wondrous fire-spirit that dwells in 
the furnaces of Sevres; but we were hurried 
through this fascinating room with such provoking 
impatience, that memory had only time to pho- 
tograph mentally a few of the historical scenes 
presented to our view. One of these was a picture 



of Louis XIV. and Madame de Main tenon. The 
"grand monarch,' ' who obeyed none of his own 
laws, is bending over the back of a chair, in which 
sits his last love, with an expression of eager de- 
votion worthy of a youth of twenty-one, while 
Madame de Maintenon has her eyes cast down 
with a well-affected appearance of shrinking mod- 
esty. This Jesuitical actress has seen many fair 
women play her part and retire from the palace 
stage scorned and humiliated ; she knows how 
they moved their pieces on that checker- board of 
life and lost the game by the enemy capturing 
their king, so she gains her point by feigning a 
retreat; she guiles her adversary to the battle- 
ground her wisdom has chosen, and there con- 
quers. The painter has been lavish in his gifts 
of grace and beauty to both the royal lover and 
his mistress; he, in his powdered wig and splendid 
dress richly adorned with lace, appeals both 
youthful and handsome, and she is "passing fair" 
with her soft smooth brown hair, and dark eyes 
fringed by long dark lashes. 

A second picture I may mention, for it, like 
many others, was wonderful from the number of 
perfect figures depicted upon a piece of porcelain 
not more than twelve inches square. It gave us 
a glimpse of the bed-chamber of Marie de Medici. 
soon after the birth of Louis XIII. The queen 
lies beneath the silken canopy of her couch, sup- 
ported by pillows, gazing with proud affection 
upon the tiny infant that Henry IV. holds aloft to 
be admired by a crowd of gaily-dressed courtiers; 
they are evidently shouting their welcome to the 
heir who has come to establish his father more 
firmly on his blood-stained throne. 
* From this gallery of "fine china," as it might 
be called, we passed to another filled with oil- 
paintings of French victories on land and sea. 
Many of these were worthy of mention ; but de- 
scriptions of pictures give only a poor idea of them 
and rarely interest the reader, though charming 
to the art-loving sight-seer, so I venture to name 
but one, and that one because it gave us Americans 
a hearty laugh at the expense of our French allies. 
It was the "final order for the attack at York - 
town." On the homely porch of an old house 
(which does very well for the Nelson homestead) 
stands a group of officers, looking eager and ex- 
cited ; some with eyes fixed upon the troops in 
the distance already in motion, some listening 
attentively to the orders being given. The most 

conspicuous person in this national memorial of 
victorious France is General Rochambeau, a fine- 
looking fellow indeed, for whom the artist's ad- 
miration was so great that he slightly confused 
the historical records of that fortunate day, and 
in his enthusiasm makes it appear as if General 
Rochambeau was giving instead of receiving the 
order for the final attack upon the British. 
General Washington stands modestly on one side 
of the apparent commander-in-chief. 

Henry IV. is seen here as frequently, and in as 
many different garbs, as Louis XIV. at Versailles. 
In one comparatively small room, called for him 
le salie de Henri le Grand, we found a fine eques- 
trian statue of him and also a full-length portrait. 
Wherever his intelligent face meets the eye, it 
bears the same striking individuality, — that charac- 
teristic which, combined with boldness and di- 
plomacy, won for him the title of Great. 

The library is large and beautifully symmetrical. 
At one end of the room is an exquisite painting of 
Joan of Arc taking her vow at the wayside shrine 
of the Virgin ; at the other end another picture, 
equally beautiful, representing Diana of Poictiers 
pleading for her father. 

Two immense globes, once the property of 
Napoleon I , stood near the door, one of which I 
thoughtlessly turned in passing, and then laughed 
outright at the furious anger of our guide. He 
stamped his foot and gesticulated in the wildest 
manner, while he poured forth a volley of reproofs 
and exhortations for the future about one-tenth of 
which I comprehended. I believe all Americans 
have an insane desire to touch the relics they see; 
it is surely a bad habit, and one that deserves 

We next visited a -magnificent suite of apart- 
ments fitted up by Louis XIII. Here no modern 
upholsterer has ever been allowed to enter and 
disturb the silent, mournful souvenirs of those 
who calmly slept, or tossed and moaned, beneath 
the faded silken canopies that hang in heavy folds 
above the ponderous beds, just as they hung cen- 
turies ago, when they were nightly drawn aside 
by hands that have long since mingled with the 

The first chamber we entered was carpeted with 
Gobelin tapestry, and the same famous material 
draped the walls and covered the antique furni- 
ture. Its bright colors have long smce vanished 
in the sunshine which crept in years ago through 



the old windows, and now only a dead-leaf brown 
relieves the yellowish white ground of the canvas. 
An immense bedstead with high posts stands con- 
spicuously forth, occupying a goodly portion of 
the floor; heavy gold-embroidered crimson velvet 
curtains shroud the royal couch, which is covered 
with a velvet spread to correspond with the cur- 
tains. Here Marie Antoinette laid her weary 
limbs after an exhausting hour with " Madame 
Etiquette/' who could not permit a queen even 
to assist in dressing or disrobing herself. Here 
Josephine tried in the still hours of darkness to 
resign herself to her fate, and tearfully gazed upon 
the magnificence around her which would speedily 
welcome the heartless, frivolous Maria Louisa, and 
here Marie Amelie and Eugenie slumbered peace- 
fully in the early days of trfeir reign. 

In the closet opening into this room is shown 
the marble bath of Marie Antoinette, in which she 
laved the fair throat then so unconscious of its 
cruel destiny ; also her golden ewer and Sevres 
basin. The shape of the first is anything but 
graceful; it looks like an inverted flower-pot 
with a handle attached. One just like it occu- 
pied an humble position on the washstand in my 
chamber at the Hotel du Sonore, only mine was 
made of plebeian tin. The basin was immense, 
and was covered with delicately-colored flowers. 
Quaint cabinets, elaborately carved and filled with 
drawers, here supplied the place of the bureau in 
our luxurious modern homes. 

The second apartment of this suite, next Marie 
Antoinette's ante-chamber, is gorgeously deco- 
rated, and rivals in elegance the royal salons. It 
was occupied, we were told, by Pius VII. from 
June 19, 181 2, until January 24, 1814, when he 
was the prisoner-guest of Napoleon I., who, during 
this period of splendid but real imprisonment, 
forced the pope to ratify himself the celebrated 
concordat, to which he had before been com- 
pelled to agree through his cardinal. The old 
bed with its embroidered silk canopy and coverlet 
was immense, quite large enough, it seemed to 
me, to have accommodated comfortably all three 
of the rival claimants to the Papal throne, who, 
a few centuries before, distracted the Christian 
world by fighting for the " triple crown." Gobe- 
lin tapestry covered this floor also, and the rich 
gilded furniture, heavy and cumbrous as it was, 
would have made an antiquarian wild with delight. 

Opening into the pope's sanctum is a handsomely 

furnished waiting-room, which was used by the 
cardinals. The windows to these apartments were 
all curtained with heavy white silk, bordered with 
crimson, blue, and gold-embroidered bands. These 
must be comparatively modern; for all the state 
apartments are similarly draped, and the silk looks 
quite white and fresh still. 

Wandering on through innumerable halls and 
galleries, we paused a moment to look at the 
small round mahogany table on which Napoleon 
I. (with a mental reservation) signed his abdica- 
tion. The guide lifted the top, and showed us 
the silver plate beneath commemorating the event. 

The emperor's salle de spectacle quite dazzled us 
with its brilliant coloring. Gold-colored satin, 
thickly wadded with cotton, made a soft-cush- 
ioned covering for walls and furniture ; the effect 
is striking, but not gaudy, and it is without excep- 
tion the most elegantly decorated theatre I ever 
saw. We entered the gallery, in which are the 
seats for the emperor and his court, and looked 
down upon the stage and the pit, which is appro- 
priated to such 'guests as may be honored with an 
invitation to witness the play. The stage was 
destitute of scenery or furniture, and gave us no 
idea of the possible effect of a tragedy or comedy 
acted there. 

A person's character is often betrayed by the 
inanimate objects surrounding her. The arrange- 
ment of flower-vases, the unconscious position of 
chairs and tables, the open work-basket or desk, 
all tell their voiceless story of care or neglect, of 
neatness or slovenliness. Every one has felt the 
truth of this, and it is this which makes us gaze 
with interest upon the special sanctum of any 
great man or woman; but I never was more 
impressed with the correctness of the idea than 
when I stood in the bed-chamber of Madame de 
Maintenon. Remote as it is from the grand state 
apartments, one seems suddenly transported to 
the retreat of some wealthy devotee, who, though 
forced to be in the world, sought to prove herself 
not of it. Very diminutive is the room the puri- 
tanical widow Scarron called her own. A plain, 
narrow bedstead stands uncurtained against the 
wall, by the side of which are three carpeted steps, 
on which her bare feet trod nightly when, weary 
with the scheming, the strategy, the masquerade 
of the day, she sought rest and refreshment in 
sleep. She needed repose, poor woman ! in order 
to prepare her for the fast-coming acts of the 



tragedy in which she, as the " power behind the 
throne/ 1 was to make laws to gratify her Jesuit 
prompters. The small space between the walls 
afforded standing-room for but little furniture ; 
this, though of rich material, was sombre in 
coloring, — gilding and brilliant hues were ban- 
ished from her presence. Her " closet," or dres 
ing-Foom, was but a niche in the old palace walls. 
In the days of farthingales one must have mounted 
upon the washstand in order to turn around with- 
out crushing the delicate pearl fringe that at that 
time adorned many a court-train. The marble 
bath was without ornament, and the ewer and 
basin were in concert with the pervading sim- 
plicity of each costly article of her toilet. Her 
spirit seemed hovering around us, mutely striving 
to persuade us that circumstances, not strategy, 
duty, not inclination, had placed her an unwilling, 
veiled queen in the royal palace of France, with 
no alternative left her but to make the best of her 
position and use it for the good of the nation and 
the benefit of the Church. 

Weary with our walk through • miles of those 
long corridors and magnificent galleries and state 
apartments, we were glad to sit down at last 
beneath the shadow of the grand old trees and 
rest our tired limbs, our aching eyes, and exhausted 
minds, which had vainly striven to store away a 
treasure of precious memories beyond the power 
of any human being to dispose of in the most 
capacious brain. 

The grounds around Fontainebleau cannot com- 
pare with the landscape-gardens of Versailles; 
but the broad walks are very lovely, overshadowed 
as they are by trees whose trunks tower like 
gigantic columns on either side of you, while 
their branches, artistically cut, form arches of 
emerald above your head. An artificial lake rip- 
ples close to your feet as you wander through the 
winding paths, with pretty water-fowl floating on 
the placid, cloud-reflecting surface of the pond ; 
some idly drifting about, looking complacently at 
their graceful shadows in the liquid mirror, while 
others were hurrying towards the tiny green island 
in the centre of the lake, which is crowned by a 
picturesque rustic temple, where they seemed to 
find food. 

Seated beneath the "whispering branches of the 
trees, with the foret de Bicore (which dovers sixty- 
four square miles), stretching far off in the dis- 
tance, carpeted with wild -flowers, from which is 
extracted a delicious perfume, one would dream 
for hours of this haunted chateau and the scenes 
enacted within its walls,— scenes of feasting, of 
revelry, and of blood, — for it was here that the 
strange, stern Queen Christina, of Sweden, had 
her equerry, Count Monaldeschi, executed in 1654; 
but "time and tide" and railway trains wait 
for nobody, and after reviving our exhausted en- 
ergies by some dinner at the chateau hotel, we 
bade adieu to Fontainebleau and its empty, voice- 
less palace, and turned our faces again toward Paris. 


t By James Hungerford. 

" I LOVE thee!" These words of endearment my heart 

Forever is softly and fondly repeating 
In days, slow and gloomy, that keep us apart ; 

In hours that unite us, so happy and fleeting. 
Oh, darling, I know that thy faith is as bright, 

Thy love is as true as the heaven above thee ; 
And, therefore, I say, with the fullest delight, 

With trust that is earnest and perfect, " I love thee !" 

" I love thee!" So knew I the moment we met, 
When first thy mild looks rested tenderly on me ; 

That sweet soul-expression I ne'er can forget, 
Revealing the beautiful spirit that won me. 

1 There never has been, since that happiest hour 

When but thy dear glances I needed to prove thee, 
A moment I could not have sworn, with the power 
Of all my full heart, before heaven, " I love thee !" 

" I love thee !" Though fortune be gloomy as night, 
With faith in thy faith I can never be cheerless ; 
i Thy love to my life is a ceaseless delight, 

O'er all other pleasures unconquered and peerless. 
Best, dearest ! Oh, would I had words that were rife 

With light and with warmth from the heaven above thee, 
To tell to thy true heart, thou life of my life, 
, My joy and my darling, how wholly I love thee ! 




By Louise Seymour Houghton. 

Taking it for granted that Jack built it with a 
view to matrimony, and in the expectation that 
Jill would come to his aid in the matter of fur- 
nishing, the point is to give Jill a few hints 
which may be of use to her in the task. As a 
matter of course, Jill is a little artistic ; or, if she 
dare not call herself quite that, yet she fain would 
be so; and Jack, too, though with ideas of the 
crudest, has yet a real longing after the beautiful, 
and a determination to seek after it, as far as may 
be, in the sweet, new, untried life. 

The matter of first importance, then, in the out- 
set, will be for them both to take courage from 
the consideration that their delight in pretty 
things, and in the art-work to which it naturally 
tends, is not, as some people rather scoffingly 
affirm, the result of an art " craze," — which will 
pass away like any other craze, — a mere transitory 
fashion. Far from this, it is the result of long 
years of steady upward progress among the few, 
and of honest work and study. The early years 
of our history were too much crowded with other 
and sterner needs, to spare much time for minis- 
tering to one part of our nature which, neverthe- 
less, has all the time cried out for nourishment, 
and in the later years has made itself heard by 
some who had the time to listen. Their long, 
patient efforts to meet this want, which they felt 
in themselves, and which they knew was crying 
out dumbly in their fellows, have at length been 
rewarded by the revival of those dying instincts 
which now, full-fed and strengthened, will not 
again be put down. 

Therefore, let both Jack and Jill take courage 
in their work, knowing that they are obeying 
no idle whim of fashion . which a few years hence 
will issue a contradictory command, but that they 
are laying the corner-stone of a better and more 
enduring edifice than their house ; namely, a home 
which shall be a thing of beauty to them, and an 
influence for good to all who may come within its 

This, of courst, only as far as they work in- 
telligently and ia; accordance with the dictates of 
real taste. Mistakes they will make in abundance, 

but in these they will at least have the consolation 
of not being singular. It is indeed laughable, 
but for the pity of it, to see the horrors daily 
perpetrated under the name of household art ; and 
although they are really the outgrowth of a move- 
ment in the right direction, yet we cannot be 
surprised to learn that in London an anti-aesthetic 
society has been formed (by husbands and fathers, 
presumably) with the object of putting down the 
sham and affectation of higher culture, and sup- 
pressing the aesthetic "slang" which does so 
much duty by way of conversation just now. 

It is comforting to reflect that wherever there 
is a sham there must have been first the real thing, 
and to know that shams are in their nature frail 
and perishable, while the real lasts on. The 
principle of "survival of the fittest" holds good 
in the department of household taste, at least; 
and wherever we find an idea which has held its 
own, even for a few years, to that idea we may 
hold fast in pretty assured hope that we have 
found something really of value. 

But we are wandering away from the considera- 
tion of the house that Jack built. We may be 
sure that Jill has seen to it that it is not a very 
small house. Jack may, perhaps, have urged that 
a tiny little house would be the more snug and 
cozy, and could be fitted up all the more com- 
pletely. But Jill will have remembered that too 
small a house leads to removal, and to the con- 
sequent destruction of all the pretty household 
goods ; and when the lares take their flight, who 
can imagine the direful result? No; the house 
which Jack builds will be amply large, even 
though its size necessitates rather sparing furnish- 
ing at first. 

That indeed will be found to be one of the 
prime advantages of a house somewhat larger than 
they require. The furnishing need not be done 
all at once. With all the help which will come 
from artistic friends and aesthetic upholsterers, 
and better still, with all the really sensible notions 
which both Jack and Jill have discussed over and 
over again, they will constantly find themselves 
repenting of something. Better thoughts will 



come to them; their artistic taste will be edu- 
cated by whatever pretty and fitting things they 
will have gathered about them ; their very mis- 
takes will teach them, and they will know better 
what they really want. Best of all will be the 
daily delight of making the new house more 
and more complete. Every one remembers how 
precious used to be the doll or the skates or the 
story-book for which one had been longing for 
ages before the birthday which brought it; how 
much more precious than the unlooked-for gift 
which seemed to have been sprung upon one quite 
unhoped for. So Jill will find that the loveliest 
thing in all her house will be that picture or 
hanging or rug that she had really needed for 
ever so long, for which, perhaps, she had privately 
been making up a little purse before that delicious 
day when Jack took her out to choose her own 
" Christmas." No danger of mistakes then ! She 
had had weeks and months to consider, and knew 
exactly what was pretty and tasteful, and she knew, 
too, the very shop where the best and most artistic 
thing of the kind was to be bought for the smallest 
cost ; for had not " looking" been the secret relish 
of her walks for six months or more ? 

There is one great advantage in living in the 
very house that Jack built, and whic 1 is sure to be 
the house for years, — an advantage quite beyond 
the pleasure of possession. It will be well worth 
while to make it pretty outside. I do not mean 
architecturally just now, nor by any of* those 
devices of paint and other decorations which fall 
rather within Jack's province, — after due consulta- 
tion with Jill, of course, — but by things in her 
own particular department. She will find it quite 
worth while to set out some of those dimbing- 
plants of which we have now so many beautiful 
varieties, and which are themselves the best and 
most permanent of decorations. Though they be 
long in growing, she can afford to wait and to 
take the yearly comfort of their development, and 
meantime she will have her window-boxes. It is 
good to see this fashion so steadily gaining ground, 
although, except perhaps in the windows of some 
of the best restaurants, we are still far behind the 
French and Germans in the matter of window- 
flowers. One has no idea, until one makes the 
experiment, how our ugly house- fronts can be 
transfigured by this use of flowers and foliage- 
plants; but, the experiment once made, it will be 
found to be one of the most permanent of house- 

hold delights, — a succession of sweet surprises, — 
by which in time the whole home will become 

While the vines and plants are growing, Jill 
will go on with her furnishing, in which we are 
all permitted to be accessory before the fact. And 
at the very outset we find ourselves confronted 
with a principle which is a recognized canon of 
household taste. "Get a definite idea of the 
general effect you wish to produce before decid- 
ing upon particulars;" the harmony of the whole 
is a cardinal point in house decoration. " But I 
have not a definite idea," interrupts Jill, just 
here, "and I don't exactly know what you mean 
by such a thing." Perhaps not; though, no doubt, 
her ideas are more definite than she supposes. 
We all have an inkling of those delicious day- 
dreams which have come to her by way of the 
needle which helped to fashion her trousseau. 
No doubt she has succeeded in conveying to Jack 
a pretty clear notion of. the fair dream-realm which 
he is to share with her, and no doubt, too, those 
wild; impossible ideas of his, "so like a man," 
over which she has laughed a dozen times, have 
yet been incorporated into her home-pictures, and 
have gone some little way toward giving them 
tone and vigor. Somewhat vague, as yet, they 
are, of course, but whenever she sets herself per- 
sistently to think out her dreams, she will find 
them taking on more definite form than she now 
has any idea of. 

It is evident, however, that we who have not 
shared the dreams, nor overheard Jack's ridiculous 
suggestions, would be quite out of place in giving 
the definite instructions which Jill most probably 
thinks she wants, and would simply mar that unity 
of design which will be the chief beauty of the 
naw home. A few general principles may help 
her to realize her own vague notions, and that is 
all that she will need until she has learned what 
it is precisely that she wants to know. 

First of all, we will beg. her not to be afraid of 
sunlight in the new house. This is not speaking 
figuratively, though there is a figure there, and a 
truth in it ; nor is it on sanitary grounds that we 
would urge Jill to throw her windows wide open 
to the sunlight, although such grounds ought to 
be sufficient. But there is no such thing of beauty 
as the sunshine. Who has not, once in her life, 
at least, gone into some old-fashioned kitchen, — 
perhaps they are not so common now as when 



some of us were younger, — with its dark rag 
carpet on the floor, and its straight-backed chairs 
set stiffly against the yellow-washed wall, and its 
unbeautiful cook-stove, and with the sunlight 
streaming in at the west window, flooding every 
nook and cranny with glory and bringing out the 
immaculate afternoon neatness, and has not ex- 
claimed, involuntarily, "Oh, how lovely! How 
sweet and cosy this is !" 

The sun is the great art- teacher, too, in that he 
opens our eyes to see, and that is really what we 
most need. It is not so much taste as sight we 
lack; the taste is false, because we do not see 
truly. Does any one doubt it? Does Jill, at 
least ? Let her try to draw a three-legged camp- 
stool, and see what she makes of it if she really 
thinks she sees what she is looking at. One needs 
no art-teaching to draw seven tolerably straight 
lines, and the seven lines in the right place will 
make the camp-stool. Has she put them there? 
No, for she does not know where they are ! Then 
let her welcome the sunlight, and let it anoint 
her eyes that they may really see. 

One of the first lessons that it will teach her 
will be that there is too much color in most 
rooms. They do look better with blinds closed 
and curtains drawn, for the half-light subdues the 
brilliant hues, and in the darkness we remember 
they are entirely gone, which would be an excel- 
lent thing if one could make it permanent. 

Quiet designs and neutral tints on floor and 
walls are much more effective than bright and 
showy ones. One reason for this is found in 
what is generally considered the first principle of 
decorative art, although we have put the sunlight 
before it. " Never go out of your way to make a 
thing or a material look like what it is not." 
Now walls and floor are flat surfaces, — the framing 
of the home. One would not wish to distract 
attention from the brilliance or richness of one's 
jewels by any mere prettiness in their setting. 
The pictures, the ornaments, the articles of furni- 
ture in one's rooms, may all, even though not 
costly, be artistic, and capable of giving true 
artistic delight. A work of art wall-paper could 
not be, were it never so elaborately expensive; 
and although some carpets and rugs do come 
under that designation, they are assuredly not the 
most showy ones. The floor is designed for walk- 
ing upon, and to leave it bare would probably be 
the most artistic way of treating it, but for certain 

considerations of comfort and convenience, which 
are the prime objects even of "high" decorative 
art. A bare floor of valuable woods would most 
probably be more expensive than Jack could well 
afford. If made of pine, it will be ugly. What- 
ever its material, it is noisy, easily defaced, and 
in our climate uncomfortably cold. And Jill will 
therefore do wisely to cover at least some portion 
of hers; but whatever she decides upon doing with 
it, she must remember that it is a floor she is 
furnishing, and not a flower-garden nor a forest, 
nor the facade of a temple, nor any other absurd 
and impossible thing. Moss is soft and beautiful, 
— damp also, frequently. Jill would not walk 
upon it in her dainty morning slippers. And the 
more exquisitely delicate and real may be the 
flowers in her carpet, the greater reluctance will 
she feel in ruthlessly trailing her long home-dress 
over them. Nor will Jack be inclined, on coming 
home after a long day's work, to climb up the 
best-proportioned of vine- wreathed columns, nor 
to perch upon the most classic of scroll-embel- 
lished pedestals. The floor is flat, and should be 
treated flatly ; and. this is one reason why good 
authorities in decorative art insist that all natural 
objects must be "conventionalized" when imitated 
in this branch of art ; that is, not drawn in relief 
and shaded, but drawn after geometrical princi- 
ples, and made to appear perfectly flat. This 
seems, at first, a disagreeable doctrine to those of 
us who have really enjoyed the naturalness of 
many of the pretty flowers and fruits upon our 
carpets and upholstery; but the more one reflects 
upon it, the more one becomes convinced of its 

If the paper on the walls presents only quiet 
tints and unobtrusive forms, the pictures and 
other ornaments about the rooms will stand out 
in all the brighter relief. So Jill must not allow 
herself to be wheedled into buying any of the 
dark, richly-decorated papers which have lately 
been "all the rage." The shopman may treat 
with scorn her request for a light-tinted small- 
patterned paper, and say, as one did to me, three 
months ago, that "nobody would have such a 
paper even in the kitchen !" but let her not fear 
him, he is perfectly harmless. However, as the 
fashion of dark paper, like so many of this world'-s 
fashions, is passing away, Jill's art instincts will 
not, perhaps, be put to any such severe test. 

The fashionable style of dividing the wall 



latitudinally is one which Jill will be glad to 
follow. There is everything in favor of it, and 
though the fashion may, and probably will, even- 
tually go "out," let us keep to it till the last 
moment. There are several different methods of 
this treatment. The most common, we all know, 
is that of "dado and frieze:" a band three or four 
feet high, of a darker, richer paper, above the 
the surbase, separated from the body of the wall 
by a strip which represents the old-fashioned 
chair-rail, and below the cornice again a border 
from a few inches to two or three feet deep, ac- 
cording to the height of the ceiling, and the 
money to be allowed for the wall-paper. It is 
very nice to have the " chair-rail* ' a real rail or 
moulding of wood stained and polished, and 
another narrower one below the frieze. The space 
between dado and frieze need not, in that case, 
be papered, but, if Jill prefers, painted, or, better 
still, kalsomined in some delicate tint, which will 
bring out her pictures beautifully, is inexpensive 
and very neat, as it can be freshly done as often 
as she likes. The dado should be darker than the 
rest of the wall, and the upper border or frieze 
should be bright, repeating the colors of the dado 
on a lighter tone of the same grounding ; gilt, if 
it cannot be afforded elsewhere, is so effective in 
the frieze that at least a little sparkle of it should 
be managed there. 

A very pretty way to treat a wall, which is not 

quite as common as the dado-and-frieze style, has 
one real advantage. Let the paper or paint or 
kalsomine run from surbase up as high as the top 
of the picture-frames — say seven or eight feet. 
Carry a wooden moulding around it, and have 
the wall above treated in an entirely different 
manner, either in a plain neutral tint with a 
bright line under the cornice, if the wall below 
be papered in a small arabesque or conventional 
pattern, or, if it be tinted, let the upper part be 
covered with a bright rich paper in the frieze 
style. The pictures being then hung upon the rail 
or moulding, the picture-cords, which are always 
unsightly, are no longer necessary, and Jill will 
be spared the trouble of finding a stud to hold 
her picture-nails, which she will otherwise dis- 
cover to be one of the most perplexing of all her 
house-furnishing problems. 

Whatever she decides to do, let her not be 
frightened out of it by the superciliousness of 
shopmen, nor by the doubts and fears of inquiring 
friends, who will assuredly begin, before her work 
is half complete, with " Oh ! are you going to 
have it so?" "Do you think that will be pretty?" 
Let her get all the ideas she can from them and 
every one else, and then go on and do as seems 
best to herself. Only by this course can she pos- 
sibly achieve anything like success in furnishing 
and making beautiful the house which Jack had 
so thoroughly and painstakingly built. 


By M. H. Ford. 

Many people, and especially many people 
belonging to the "superior sex," have an idea 
that woman's brain is not fitted for the compre- 
hension of great things; that domestic and intel- 
lectual qualifications counteract each other, and 
that if a woman penetrates very deeply into trig- 
onometry, for instance, her knowledge of pastry 
is apt to be rather shallow. It frequently happens 
also that women who devote themselves to intel- 
lectual pursuits are either unmarried, and free 
from the cares of domestic life, or are so situated, 
in spite of encumbering husbands, that the ordi- 
nary feminine occupations sit but lightly upon 
their shoulders. Therefore the astute masculine 

draws downs the corners of his mouth, and, point- 
ing his index finger at these lawless individuals, 
observes, "Look, now, where are their firesides? 
Did they ever darn a pair of socks?" forgetting 
that Tennyson never chops his own wood, while 
Spinoza did not think it necessary to relieve his 
philosophical labors by working in a blacksmith's 
; shop. 

There is one woman, however, whose life was a 
complete refutation of all such opinions. A learned 
woman she was, so learned that John Stuart Mill, 
on receiving a letter which she sent him, speaking 
highly of his book on the " Subjection of Women," 
wrote to her, saying, "Such praise from you is 



sufficient reward for having written the book;" 
while Faraday, the candid, earnest scientist, ad- 
dressed her thus: "I almost doubt when I think 
I have your approbation to some degree at least 
in what I have thought or said about gravitation, 
the forces of Nature, their conservation/ ' etc. 

Mary Somerville was the daughter of a Scotch 
admiral, and belonged to that same family of 
Fairfax which counted the mother of Washington 
among its connections. She passed her early life 
in the little town of Burntisland, near Edinburgh, 
among surroundings which gave but slight promise 
of that intellectual development to which she after- 
ward attained. As late as 1790 the Scotch enter- 
tained very narrow ideas upon the education of 
woman, and if a lady was taught how to read and 
write, and keep accounts, besides being instructed 
in the mysteries of housekeeping, she was con- 
sidered very well educated, while the pursuit of 
any more extended branches of study was believed 
to render her incapable of fulfilling her wifely and 
motherly duties. The Fairfax family, though by 
no means illiberal, shared the prejudices of their 
age, and Mrs. Somerville did not even receive 
what is now called a "common-school educa- 
tion.' ' 

When she was twelve years old she could read 
intelligibly enough for her own enjoyment, but 
was unable to read aloud without making the 
most absurd blunders in pronunciation. Her 
father coming home from a long voyage at this 
time, found her a " hoyden/' and declared that 
she must be sent somewhere to learn writing and 
decorum ! So she was placed at a fashionable 
boarding-school, where her little form was fas- 
tened into tight stays of a very uncomfortable 
design, and she was taught reading and writing. 
After remaining here a year, it was decided that 
she had received sufficient education, so she was 
brought home once more, and immediately became 
more of a "hoyden" than before in her joy at 
regaining her liberty. 

Mary Fairfax was anything but a dunce, how- 
ever, and she soon began to develop tendencies 
which showed the bent of her mind, and hinted 
at the proficiency she would afterward gain in 
certain lines of thought. She spent her winters 
in Edinburgh with her mother, learning paint- 
ing, music, and dancing, and studying Latin and 
Greek, "because she had nothing else to do." 

The little incident which attracted her attention 

to mathematical studies was rather singular, show- 
ing how slight a thing frequently turns a current 
strong enough to influence a life. She was invited 
to attend a tea-party with her mother, and among 
the older guests was a young lady with whom she 
became acquainted, and who asked her to go and 
see some fancy-work she was doing. She went to 
visit her next day, and while there looked at a 
fashion magazine with colored plates, jn which 
she saw what at first appeared to be an arithmeti- 
cal puzzle, but turning the page she found some 
strange looking lines with X's and Y's. Upon 
asking their meaning, she was told that it was a 
"new kind of arithmetic, called algebra," and 
this was all she learned about the matter. 

She could not forget those odd-looking lines, 
however, and waited patiently for an opportunity 
to learn something more upon the subject. She 
studied navigation, hoping this would supply her 
need ; but the only light she gained from it was 
the discovery that astronomy does not consist in 
merely watching the stars. At length a tutor was 
engaged for her brothers, and she ventured to lay 
her troubles before him. She had not dared to 
mention the subject to any of her friends, know- 
ing they would disapprove most decidedly of such 
inclinations. The tutor, however, was sympa- 
thetic, and procured her the books she needed; 
and after demonstrating a few problems in geome- 
try with him, she pursued her studies alone and in 

From this time, one may say, her fate was marked 
out for her and her troubles began, troubles which 
embittered all the first half of her life and left 
their impress upon her temperament in the sensi- 
tiveness and diffidence which always formed her 
chief characteristics. Scarcely ever has a human 
being been endowed with such an overmastering 
thirst for knowledge, and seldom has a thirst 
remained so unquenchable through life. 

Her intellectual tastes met not the slightest 
encouragement from any source; she was obliged 
to study in secret, and could not speak to any 
of her intimate associates of the subjects which 
interested her so deeply. The only time she had 
for prosecuting her mathematical studies was at 
night when the family had retired. Then she was 
accustomed to rise, and read far into small hours, 
finding ample refreshment in the knowledge she 
gained. This practice, however, she was not 
allowed to pursue uninterruptedly, — fortunately 



for her health, perhaps, — for one of the maids 
discovered her intellectual way of sleeping, and 
when Lady Fairfax complained of the manner in 
which her candles were wasted, she told her that 
" it was little wonder the candles didn't last long 
when Miss Mary sat up till morning reading." 
So candles were prohibited, and the indefatigable 
girl immediately began to review what she had 
learned, . demonstrating problem after problem 
from memory, and fixing firmly in her mind 
the foundation for that intellectual superstructure 
which she was one day to build. 

So she went on, year after year, keeping her 
mind ever on the alert for fresh opportunities, 
occasionally obtaining a book which gave her a 
new start- Yet the progress she made must have 
been very discouraging, for, in spite of her eager- 
ness to work and advance, she had absolutely no 
chance. Fortunately, though very sensitive, she 
possessed a quiet, patient temperament. She was 
one of those who can wait. She never stormed 
or raved about her disappointments, her lack of 
sympathy and appreciation, but buried it all 
quietly in her heart and trudged on, keeping 
Parnassus steadily in view. 

At last there came a change, though not in all 
respects a change for the better. She married 
her cousin, Mr. Greig, and went to live in Lon- 
don. This union does not seem to have been a 
love-match, on her part at least ; for her husband 
was entirely uncongenial to her, took no interest 
in her pursuits and ambitions, and in fact regarded 
them as rather unwomanly and reprehensible. She 
did not, however, relinquish her studies, but 
kept on whenever she was able, hoping for better 

Thus far our sketch has dealt chiefly with the 
student side of Mrs. Somerville's character, but 
she was by no means a cold, unsocial bookworm. 
On the contrary, she was remarkable for the har- 
monious development of her character. While 
she became one of the most learned — perhaps the 
most learned— of women, she was simple and un- 
pretending in feeling and taste. She was always 
a devoted wife and mother; educating her chil- 
dren herself during their early years, and, after 
her second marriage, living in the closest and 
most tender union with her husband. Fond of 
society, she enjoyed the theatre and opera^ as 
well as social entertainments, and felt keenly the 
deprivation of such pleasures. In her youth she 

was quite a belle, for, though without a dowry, she 
was very pretty, and considered attractive by the 
young gallants who moved in her circle. More- 
over, she could cook, and once, when Mr. Somer- 
ville was sick, astonished his critical relatives by 
making him some delicious currant-jelly. She was 
also passionately fond of music and art. She 
always found time to practice four or five hours a 
day, until advanced in years, and played Bee- 
thoven, Clementi, and Mozart with delight and 
appreciation. She painted, too, and loved to 
reproduce on canvas the scenes and phenomena 
of Nature, which she loved so well. 

So that if Mrs. Somerville had never penetrated 
the mysteries of the higher mathematics she 
would have been considered an extremely accom- 
plished woman. Her mental activity was, in short, 
marvelous, and it manifested itself in every direc- 
tion, leaving no part of her nature poverty- 
stricken, making her loving, tender, sympathetic, 
as well as learned and strong. 

When she was about thirty- three years of age 
her husband died, leaving her with a small fortune 
and two boys to care for. She took her children 
and went home to her father's house. And now, 
at last, she felt that her opportunity was come. 
She was independent, and could follow her own 
tastes. She shut herself up within the friendly 
limits of home, refused all invitations to go else- 
where, bought books and studied. Her mind was 
ripe for the knowledge she had been deprived of 
so long, and her progress of course was marvelous. 

From this time forward her life was as happy 
and full of sunshine as it had formerly been ob- 
scured by clouds. She married again, after a 
time, and this marriage was all that could be 
desired. Mr. Somerville was a man of culture 
and liberality, proud of his wife, and eager to 
assist her in every way. He possessed considerable 
literary ability, and had been a great traveler, but 
he was indolent, and preferred to assist his wife 
in her labors, rather than make an effort to 
become an author himself. 

Their union was an ideal one in its sympathetic 
strength. They studied, read, walked, and talked 
together. They became interested in mineralogy, 
and collected stones and minerals, spending their 
evenings in classifying and discussing them. They 
became interested in botany, in geology, — in fact, 
it is difficult to say what this phenomenal couple 
did not become interested in. Mr. Somerville's 



sole thought seemed to be to stimulate and en- 
courage his wife, and it is almost impossible to 
estimate the effect of his companionship and sym- 
pathy upon her genius. 

Their tastes and position threw them into a 
delightful set of people, and they had the benefit 
of friends who never failed to teach them some- 
thing. The Herschels, Dr. Whewell, the Napiers, 
Miss Edgeworth, Joanna Bailie, besides many 
others, were their intimate associates, and as Mrs. 
Somerville advanced in years she found new 
friends among the incoming generation of scien- 
tists as she had among their predecessors. 

After her translation of La Place's " Me- 
chanicism of* the Heavens" — a book which Sir 
John Herschel said not twenty men in England 
could read at that time — she became as well 
known to the French scientists as to those of 
England, and as she advanced in years and learn- 
ing she corresponded with wise men all over the 
world. In'Italy, France, Germany, England, and 
America the greatest men knew and respected 
Mrs. Somerville, not because she was a charming 
woman, but because her learning called forth their 
candid and unequivocal admiration. 

She received a pension of two hundred pounds 
a year from the British government, in order that 
she might pursue her studies without interruption, 
and she was a member of all the prominent 
scientific associations in the world. All this she 
accomplished through the possession of those 
qualities which women are supposed to lack, — 
patience, perseverance, the faculty of waiting in- 
telligently. Besides her translation of the " Me- 
chanicism of the Heavens," — which she not only 
translated, but popularized, — she wrote "The 
Connection of the Physical Sciences," a "Physical 

Geography," and "Molecular and Microscopic 
Science," works which, for profundity and re- 
search, deserve high praise. 

The latter portion of Mrs. Somerville's life was 
unusually calm and happy. She passed most of 
her time in Italy, wandering from one beautiful 
city to another, painting on the Roman Campagna, 
watching the stars at night in the brilliant Italian 
heavens, surrounded wherever she stopped by a 
society of cultured and intellectual people. She 
lived to be ninety years old, retaining her facul- 
ties to the last, and losing none of her interest in 
scientific matters. 

A few years before her own death she lost her 
husband and her son, Worongow Grieg, sorrows 
which affected her deeply, for her love for both 
was true and warm. She was sustained, however, 
by the thought that the parting would be but a 
short one, for she possessed a firm belief in a 
future existence. While liberal in all her think- 
ing, and not bound by any theological code, she 
was naturally religious in temperament, and the 
"unseen world" was very real to her. She was 
not a controversialist in any respects, and lived 
among friends of very conflicting views upon 
religious subjects; but though she never discussed 
such matters, except with those with whom she 
was on very intimate terms, her views and feelings 
were clear and decided. She was something of a 
Nature-worshipper, and God was to her a benefi- 
cent fatherly power, the origin of law, who both 
created and loved the universe. 

Mrs. Somerville's life is one which ought to be 
familiar to all of her sex, for she accomplished 
much which women are usually considered inca- 
pable of performing, and in spite of obstacles 
great enough to have discouraged a weaker nature. 


By Ernest Ingersoll. 

I believe that the hardest piece of literary 
work I ever did, long as I have been addicted to 
scribbling, was in helping Van to get his wife, 
or rather to keep her. At college he had* pulled 
me out of many a scrape, but this one effort of 
mine is deemed to have canceled all debts. If it 
had been a question of brains, I could not have 
done it ; but it was just a matter of hard work. 

The whole story is rather curious, and not a little 

Van was a favorite editorial writer on the same 
metropolitan daily newspaper to which I was 
attached as real -estate reporter, — a slow, plodding 
place, asking nothing more than steady diligence 
and care. He had been down to do a critical 
account of ceramics at the Centennial Exhibition, 



and returning, just caught the afternoon fast train 
up. It was densely crowded, but he finally found 
a seat, and was settling himself for the ride, when, 
chancing to look across the aisle, he saw a tall, 
loaferish German, with a trombone in a green 
bag, just about to take somewhat forcible posses- 
sion of a seat beside a remarkably pretty young 
lady, the only vacant place in the car. Her eyes, 
full of dismay, met Van's. With a telegraphic 
glance he stepped quickly across the car, and 
touching the fat German on the shoulder, re- 
marked, "The young lady is my friend; I can 
offer you my seat with pleasure." 

Before the Dutchman fairly comprehendecLwhat 
the affable young man was saying, he found himself 
gently sidled into the empty seat left opposite, 
while Van was stowing the young lady's bundles 
into the rack and commenting on the crowded 
condition of the train as calmly as if he had 
known her a decade. 

That young woman, sir, was my Cousin Alice ; 
and, 'pon honor, she never did such a larky thing 
in all her life before or since ! But as she said to 
me afterward, what could she do? The polite 
audacity and thorough self-possession of this hand- 
some cavalier who had rescued her from the awful 
infliction of a massive Teuton, redolent of lager 
and sausages, were irresistible, and she saw at a 
glance that Van was the real gentleman we all 
know him to be. So, reflecting that the train 
would arrive in New York early in the evening, 
and that there would be the end of it, she resolved 
to make the best of what was a not wholly disagree- 
able adventure, and was soon chatting entirely at 
ease with her merry companion. 

The outskirts of the Quaker City were scarcely 
passed when the cars came to a halt. 

"I thought this train did not stop this side 
of Jersey City," Alice remarked, in some sur- 

"Nevertheless it has," replied Van, "and ap- 
parently has no intention of going on again. I 
say, brakeman, what's the detention?" 

" Freight-cars off the track ahead, sir." 

" Will it keep us here long?", 

"About an hour, I suppose." 

"Heigh-ho!" said Van, turning to his com- 
panion. "Lucky that; well, that Meinherr has 
a whole seat to himself." And he pointed to the 
curled-up German, already asleep, and blissfully 
hugging his trombone. 

"His music hath soporific charms," laughed 

" I fancy it is his beer." 

"In either case the cause is found " 

" In a horn," Van interrupted. 

"Precisely, since you suggest it; but I was 
going to philosophize on the slender distinction 
between Orpheus and Morpheus." 

The rueful face with which Alice had looked 
out at the deepening September twilight, reflect- 
ing how frightfully late it would be by the time 
she got to New York, was thus happily changed to 
smiles. There was no possible help for her pre- 
dicament, which she was shocked to find she 
could not realize as so very dreadful, after -all. 
What worried her was that her father was not 
expecting her, and there would be no one at the 
railway station to meet her. She would not have 
minded this in the early evening, but midnight 
was a different matter. Was her adventure as 
likely now to end at the ferry-boat *as a few 
moments ago she thought it would ? 

After an hour Van went out on a tour of in- 
spection, and came back with a mischievous grin. 

" We are in for it !" he reported. "The work- 
men haven't begun to get the track cleared. They 
promise everything ; but I suspect it will be fully 
two hours before we move." 

" Oh, dear, what shall I do !" 

"Do? why nothing. For your sake I am 
sorry; but, so far as I am concerned, I don't 
mind the delay. I am going to get out some 
grapes and some marvelous knickknacks, recom- 
mended as good to eat, which a French exhibitor 
of confections gave me. Have you the courage 
to try them?" 

" They are delicious." 

" I am glad you think so. Not very substantial, 
though. I shouldn't refuse a slice of our friend's 
bologna and a sip of his beer as pieces de resist- 
ance" said Van, with great coolness. Presently 
he added, " You were at the Memorial Hall this 

She gazed at him in astonishment. 

"Yes — how did you know?" 

"I saw you there, talking with a friend of mine 
— Monsieur Le Vieillot." 

Alice turned on him like a flash, intent on a 
coup d'itat. 

"And are you Paul Deyrolle, the l cher amV he 
is forever talking about ?" 



But this strategy was a failure. Van was un- 
moved. The rascal only shook his head with a 
quizzical smile, and kept silent. 

"That gesture is a challenge," said she. "But 
I do not choose to accept it — at least not at 

"Ha, ha," laughed Van; "now I must look 

Then they fell to talking of the Exhibition, 
and she directed the conversation very adroitly, 
with the result of finding that his acquaintances 
comprised men in every branch of business and 
professional life, among them not a few of world- 
wide reputation, and numbered several persons 
whom she knew or knew about. Moreover, she 
was convinced that this .gentleman was not assum- 
ing anything about himself beyond the truth, but 
had had a very wide range of experience, and had 
kept his eyes open. Whom he was she did not 
know ; what, she could only guess. 

As for his impressions, they were that he had 
met a far more than ordinarily well-informed and 
bright-witted little woman, and he enjoyed it 

At last Alice spoke out suddenly, relying on 
her incognito, and disarming him at the start : 

"It is useless for me to ask excuse from you for 
impertinence, but I have been trying to conjecture 
what your profession is." 

"How do you know I do not follow a trade?" 

"Your finger-nails show the cultivated gentle- 
man." And at that Alice caught herself and 
blushed prettily, by way of apology. 

"Well," said Van, "guess a little. If you hit 
right, I'll tell you," whereupon the provoking 
fellow folded his arms and leaned back in the seat, 
ready to be cross-examined with that same quiz- 
zical smile, as much as to say, " No cracks in my 
armor. ' ' 

But he reckoned ' without his host. Alice 
looked hard at him an instant, then dropping her 
gray eyes in charming hesitation, said slowly, and 
as if vast consequences depended : 

' ' / guess that you are a journalist. ' ' 

Van sat bolt upright with an abruptness sug- 
gesting a spiral spring. 

" How did you know ?" 

"I didn't, surely (clapping her hands gayly), 
but I do now. I am right ! You have betrayed 

"I suppose," remarked the somewhat crestfallen 
Vol. XVI.— n 

Van, "that I may now introduce myself — no, ha, 
ha ! On second thought, I'll let you guess a while 
on that. You are amazingly shrewd." 

"Oh, that I shall not try," Alice replied. And 
then, with sudden soberness, "I confess, after an 
unusually fatiguing day, to being very sleepy. 
And as the train seems to be starting at last, if 
you will kindly hand down my shawl and put my 
hat in its place, I think I will try to take a nap." 

Having done so, and folded it into a pillow, 
the young- lady thanked him, turned her face to 
the window, and departed to the land of dreams. 

Meanwhile the train had started and sped 
through the darkness at terrific speed. It was 
late now, and even to Van the car seemed cold. 
So taking his rug he gently spread it across the 
lightly-cloaked shoulders of the slumbering girl at 
his side, " nilly-willy," as he thought to himself, 
then settled in his own corner to rest. Although 
tired, he was too used to night-work to feel sleepy, 
and his thoughts drifted away to the fictitious 
scenery of a magazine story he was trying to 
sketch. But the first situation had hardly been 
contrived when he noticed that with the incessant 
jar of the train his fair companion was slowly but 
surely slipping downward, pillow and all. Van 
took in the situation on the instant, and, sitting 
up straight, extended his arm conveniently along 
the back of the seat. In three minutes the fair 
head, with its bonnie brown hair half-escaped 
from luxuriant coils, was lying snugly and peace- 
fully on his shoulder, and the warm rug was folded 
very closely about the slender form. How he 
watched the delicate nostrils rise and sink as the 
breath came through, counted the blue veins in 
the motionless eye-lids, even had a flitting tempta- 
tion to bend down and touch the sweet half-parted 
lips with his big moustache ! 

Still the "lightning express" sped on, and the 
girl slept, — slept soundly, — with an excess of weari- 
ness very evident in her tightly-closed eyes and 
her absolute quiet. His own arm, stalwart as it 
was, ached with its constrained position, but for 
the wealth of the metropolis he would not have 
awakened that delicate child resting so serenely 
against him. He dreaded lest the train might 
stop again and so rouse her; but past dim village 
stations, through woods and fields of blackness, 
over hollow, roaring bridges, in and out of the 
light of large towns, — never a pause for almost a 
hundred miles, — until the broad salt-meadows of 



the Hackensack were far behind, and the gaslights 
of Jersey City appeared. Then Alice heard a 
grave, kind voice very close to her ear : 

" Don't you think you'd better wake up?" 

She pondered it a long, long time, as it seemed 
to her in her dream, and opened her eyes to find 
her head pillowed on Van's shoulder, and his eyes 
smiling down upon her, sprang up and hid her 
face ; but the blush was too quick, and she knew 
that her very ears were red, and that the shame 
was leaking rosily through her fingers. 

"The motion of the train," she heard Van say 
quietly, "gradually jarred you down upon my 
shoulder, and I thought you might as well stay 
there. Have you had a good sleep? This is 
Jersey City, and it is after one o'clock. If you 
are going to New York or elsewhere, I hope you 
will let me arrange for your safety. It is very 
late for a lady to be left alone." 

"I know it," she answered meekly, and fol- 
lowed him out of the car. 

" Now if you will allow me," said Van, as the 
ferry-boat touched the New York pier, "I will 
call a carriage and go with you to your destina- 
tion. Permit me to introduce myself, since our 
joke has taken a serious turn : I am Henry Van 
Home, a member of the staff of 7 he Daily Forum, 
and very much at your service." 

This with a grand bow. 

"And I," replied Alice, simply, "am the 
daughter of Mr. Girard Casseltine, and we live at 
No. — , East Thirty-ninth street. I certainly should 
dislike to be left alone here, but I must choose 
horse-cars instead of a close carriage at this 

"I admire your prudence," said Van, and led 
the way to the cars. 

Thirty-ninth street reached, a moment's walk 
brought the young lady home, and with her foot 
on the step Alice paused and extended her hand. 

"I have to thank you, Mr. Van Home, for 
great kindness ; I hardly know what I should have 
done, otherwise. And I hope you will not think 
me altogether ungrateful if I ask you not to con- 
sider this episode an acquaintance. We seem to 
have so many mutual friends, that doubtless we 
shall some day meet more — regularly, shall I say ? i 
Then I shall be very glad to thank you again. 
Good-night !" 

She had been meditating this little set speech 
all the way up, and wanted no protest or reply. 

He could only say, "As you wish ; I shall not go 
out of reach until I see you safely in," before she 
was up the steps and had pulled the bell. It was 
quickly answered, and Van walked away, calling 
her a " trump," quarreling with the native polite- 
ness that had led him to give a promise without 
pleading his opposite wish. 

" If I ever happen to see her, she won't recog- 
nize me," he grumbled to himself. "I must 
discover somebody who knows her and will vouch 
for me. Jolly adventure, at all events." 

Now, sir, I didn't hear one quarter of these 
facts when I called upon my pretty cousin the 
next evening. It was merely mentioned that the 
train was five hours late, and that a gentleman 
who had shared her seat had been very polite, 
offering to accompany her to the horse- cars, and 
so she had got safely home. Of course I never 
suspected my old chum was the man — such coin- 
cidences don't happen once in a ceutury — until I 
saw him the next day, and he at once began to 
give me a limited sketch of a certain adventure, 
ending with a tirade against his "luck," which 
was always putting the ambrosial cup to his lips 
only to dash it down. Of course. I saw through 
the whole of it at once, but I made no sign. 
Loving Van like a brother, and loving Alice like 
a sister, I had no objection whatever to their 
meeting; but, withered old boy though I am, I 
wanted to get a taste of the romance of it in my 
own mouth. So I kept my own counsel and 
waited for a good opportunity, while Van seemed 
in no danger of forgetting his compagne du voyage. 

One day, a little later, there was to be an ex- 
hibition of art-stuff up-town, which I promised 
Alice she should see ; and meanwhile I let my 
aunt into the secret, and secured her consent to 
my little plot. The evening before, just as we 
were finishing a game of Milliards at the Press 
Club, I remarked to ray friend : 

"Van, there are some new pictures and so forth 
opened at the Academy to-morrow. Wish you'd 
drop in on your way down, about eleven o'clock; 
I shall have a friend there I'd like to introduce 
you to." 

I don't suppose it ever occurred to the fellow 
that there was a woman in the case, and he 
promised off-hand. 

While Alice was engrossed in the pictures that 
morning, I kept an eye on the stair-case. Finally 



Van's bushy head rose slowly above the railing, 
and its owner stopped before a statuette. Evi- 
dently he didn't care a copper whether he found 
me or not. So, having skillfully maneuvered 
the innocent Alice into a corner, I went over to 

"Come, old fellow, I want to introduce you." 
Here I turned the corner sharp. You should have 
seen those two faces ! I believe for the first time 
in his life Van was staggered. Alice blushed to 
the temples, but kept her wits about her, while I 
rubbed my hands like a papa in the play, and 
announced : 

"Miss Casseltine, Mr. Harry Van Horne." 

Of course we had a very jolly time over it, with 
some luncheon afterward. I confessed the plot, 
and we promised to call on Alice in the evening. 
I couldn't go, after all; but Van kept his word 
with great satisfaction. 

An acquaintance thus romantically begun must 
of course ripen into intimacy; and in Van's case 
it grew rapidly from friendship into love. Alice, 
however, was a little shy of confessing herself 
caught in such piratical fashion, and, I imagine, 
put on a colder mien than she felt. 

About Easter, Van was promoted to a desk which 
gave him a better salary; and having secured a 
pretty sure sale for his stories besides, thought he 
was able to try his luck with Alice. He believed 
the dear girl would be willing to begin home-life 
modestly, if she loved him as he hoped she did. 
I thought so, too; and we were right. When I 
saw him again he was radiant with success and 
brimming over with happiness. His exuberance 
having subsided a little, I mildly suggested that 
to me he owed the key of this delightful situation ; 
that he ought to be grateful, and that I had not 
yet dined. Whereupon we went somewhere or 
other, and had some extra dry, I think it was, 
and a bite to eat, which took two hours to dis- 
pose of it. I remember wishing I had a hundred 
lovely cousins to introduce to a hundred good 
fellows, in order to have the chance to discount 
their obligations on the same terms. 

Well, the course of their true love ran smooth. 
Old Casseltine was agreeable ; they were going to 
be married in October, and now the day was only 
about a fortnight off. As for my own affairs 
meanwhile, they had not been so serene. In the 
first place, my boarding-house burned down one 
night, and I lost a goodly pile of books and other 

articles of value. Taking temporary refuge at 
my uncle's after this catastrophe, I had at length 
been permitted to make a home there, although I 
rarely ate more than breakfast at their table. And 
now, a few days before the following exciting little 
episode, I had sprained my ankle by slipping on 
the marble staircase of a hotel, and had been con- 
fined to a room there for several days. I am not 
sure but this was a blessing in disguise; for if I 
hadn't been chained to that hotel room, I might 
have tried some other and worse way out of the 
scrape than I did. 

One afternoon, about two weeks before his mar- 
riage, as I mentioned, Van ran down into New 
Jersey over night. Feeling especially bored that 
evening, I sent a messenger to Casseltine's, asking 
some one to look in the left-hand drawer of my 
study-table, and send me the package of papers to 
be found there tied up so-and-so. 

In due time the messenger came back and 
brought me, not the package I asked for, but the 
following letter to Van Home, enclosed open in 
an envelope addressed to myself: 

"Mr. Van Horne: How could you deceive 
me so cruelly ! You told me you had never cared 
for and had not spoken a word to that horrid 
woman for years. Now, a chance (which I hate !) 
has given me this dreadful evidence of your perfidy. 
You have broken my heart, and I cannot forgive 
you. Oh, Harry', if you had only told me the 
truth ! I loved you so much, and now I hope and 
pray never to see you again. I shall go far away 
to-morrow morning. Alice Casseltine." 

Then I unfolded the enclosure and read, scrawled 
in Van's chirography on a torn sheet of letter-paper, 
the following interesting sentences : 

"My Precious One: There are not words 
strong enough to tell, in this last letter, how it 
crushes me to say good-bye. The future which seems 
so brilliant to other people is utter blackness to 
me. I would rather to-day sink down to the grave, 
clasping you passionately and forever in my arms, 
than tread the * gay' path which I must. Milly, 
Milly, my first and only love, why did I let you 
go ! Paradise was just before us, and now " 

There the sheet was torn off. I had long ago 
lighted my pipe with the rest ! I knew the whole 
history of it. In the first place, "that horrid 
woman," whom Alice referred to with such disgust, 
was a little actress for whom, years before, Van 
had had un grand passion. He hadn't even known 



where she was for a twenty-month, but, like a 
fool, had told Alice all about it. Why will a man 
be such an ass as to confess everything he ever 
knew or did as soon as he fancies himself seriously 
in love? A woman don't do it; she plays her 
innocence of all previous attachment as her trump- 
card, and so when the smash-up comes and she 
uses his ammunition he has none to retaliate with. 
Little confession they'll get out of me ! 

Well, I knew Van's fiance* had nothing to fear 
from that quarter. As to this torn letter, it was 
nothing more nor less than a piece of manuscript. 
As I wrote to Alice : " I got a glimmer of a plot 
into my head, and catching Van's story-making 
fever, I started to write it out. When I had got 
to that part where the letter came in, I stuck fast, 
and asked Van's help, whereupon he dashed off 
the rough draft you have miserably got hold of. 
This I copied, and (as I supposed) afterward 
threw away. That is the whole history ; and your 
jealousy, my dear girl, is directed toward an ideal 

Perfectly confident of the adequacy of this ex- 
planation, I was considerably moved to get an 
answer in an hour to the effect that I had behaved 
in a very uncousinly way in espousing the cause 
of a man who had treated her (Alice) so basely, 
and that, much as she wished to, she couldn't 
believe my story; in the first place, because the 
name of the person addressed tfas " Milly," and 
in the second place, because it was in the highest 
degree improbable that I, Aleck Adams, reporter 
of the real-estate market, would ever write a story. 
In short, she disbelieved everything and every- 
body, was glad she was going away on an early 
train, and had mailed a note to that effect to Mr. 
Van Home's home address. 

I opened my eyes pretty wide at that ! The 
case was getting serious. She would be gone 
before Van got back, and I did not know where a 
message would immediately find him. Yet some- 
thing must be done on the instant. What? While 
I was cogitating I happened to turn the note over, 
and on the back I saw written : 

"If you could show me the manuscript, I might 
begin to believe you. Oh, I wish I could 1" 

Did this help matters? Not a particle. No 
further manuscript than that single wretched letter 
had ever been penned. I had fibbed to that ex- 
tent. The unvarnished facts were, that Van and 
I had talked it over; he was to write the novelette, 

not I,.and an actress in love was to be the heroine. 
We had debated a little on the form of this letter, 
whereupon he had scribbled a rough draft (as I 
had said) to express his notion at the moment. 
In the similarity of characters the name of his old 
stage-friend naturally suggested itself as he hastily 
wrote, but the emotion was wholly feigned. Be- 
yond these preliminary notes the tale had never 
gone. I saw at once the scrape I had got myself, 
as well as him, into; and it gradually dawned 
upon me that the only way out was to manufac- 
ture a story, more or less complete, to fit the 
letter, and to do it before daylight ! 

I rang the bell and glanced at my watch : ten 

"Here, boy, get this telegram off, and take 

this note to street ; but first get me a quire 

of foolscap and some more cigars." 

The telegram read, "Alice: Will bring MS. 
in the morning." The note was a brief intima- 
tion to Van of the trouble ahead, and a suggestion 
to show himself at Casseltipe's as soon as possible 
after eleven the next day. 

Then I set at work. I remembered the plot 
pretty well, and had only to fill it out ; but this 
cost me as hard work as it did Robinson Crusoe 
to hew his great canoe, notwithstanding he had 
the desired shape of the craft thoroughly in his 
mind's eye. 

A young English nobleman, poor, but with 
great expectations and a proud family, falls in 
love with a jolly little comedy actress, whom he 
knows to be refined and noble-minded beyond 
her position. He loves* her and she returns it, 
but it is all a secret between them. They have 
various adventures, and an affecting time. Mean- 
while his family have arranged for him a diplo- 
matic marriage which has at least to recommend 
it that the lady concerned, a cousin of his, is very 
fond of him, though he cares little for her. But 
by this marriage diminished estates will be re- 
stored to their ancient breadth, depleted purses 
filled, and a brilliant future open. To all this he 
is indifferent, and concerns himself only in devis- 
ing some way to make the actress his bride. But 
his father gets wind of his love, fears the misalli- 
ance, acquaints the little actress with his son's 
prospects, pleads, cajoles, and threatens until the 
gir), tearing out her heart by the roots, vows she 
has been playing false to her lover, and utterly 
refuses to see the nobleman any more. Heart- 





broken and helpless, he is obliged to submit, and 
after a stormy scene with his father offers himself 
"to be sacrificed on the altar of the family pride." \ 
But on the eve of his wedding he yields to the '■ 
yearning of a feast of memory, and rises from it , 
worsted by the temptation to write to his old love 
this letter, the draft of which had nearly ship- , 
wrecked us all. 

This much I had to write. There was little 
need to go far beyond it. I had accounted for 
the letter, and had done my level best to save my 
friends. Dawn was peeping through the blinds as 
the pen dropped from my stiffened fingers, and I 
leaned back in the invalid's chair where I sat, 
and fell sound asleep. 

You can have little idea of the immense mental 
strain that story caused me. 1 was used, as every 
newspaper man must be, to long and rapid work, 
but I had never done anything whatever of that 
character; and ever since then I have had a pro- 
found respect for the story-writer, whom before I 
had rather sneered at. 

A porter waking me at ten o'clock the next 
morning, I had a quick breakfast, and managed, 
with his and my crutches' help, to put myself 
groaning into a carriage. At Casseltine's a man- 
servant came at once to assist me, and led me 
straight to the library, where Alice and her mother 
were sitting in dreadful gloom, — a gloom that was 
infectious, — and between this and my ankle I could 
only groan out, as I sank down upon the sofa : 

"Alice, I am sorry you couldn't have trusted 
me. There is the manuscript." 

She glanced at it, saw my handwriting through 
it all, even to the hated letter copied into its 
proper place, fled, and hid her face in her 
mother's ample bosom. 

Then I told all over again the tale of the un- 
lucky scrap she had found in searching my study- 
table, confessing not a word of my innocent ruse, 
but dilating gently on Van's faithfulness to every 
friend, and his love of absolute truth (fortunate 
for him I had a less Quixotic regard !), until 
an impatient jerk at the door-bell interrupted 

"I never can meet him!" cried Alice, and 
darted away, sure it was who rang. But she was 
too late. He caught her on the staircase, and I 
suppose he must have seen in her eyes that all was 
right, for there was nothing but confidence in his 
tones as he folded her in a close embrace and 
whispered : 

" Doesn't my darling know that she is the only 
woman in the world to me?" 

"Now I do," she answered, faintly, out of the 
lapel of his coat, as it were ; " but you frightened 
me terribly." 

And so he brought her in, bewitching in her 
rainbow of blushes and smiles and departing tears; 
and I was glad of my night's toil over that ficti- 
tious love-letter. 


By Marian Ford. 

Knitting, the pastime of our grandmothers, 
has recently claimed a prominent place among 
the various branches of fashionable fancy-work, 
and the readers of Potter's American Monthly 
will doubtless welcome directions for making the 
ribbed silk stockings now so much admired. Many 
are the pairs of pale-blue, cardinal, and black hose 
that have been knit by the following rules since 
they were supplied the writer through the kindness 
of an English lady. 

Ladies' Ribbed Silk Stockings. — Materials: 
Four ounces knitting-silk. If a tight knitter, use 
No. 1 6 needles; if a loose knitter, No. 17. The 

term rib, here employed, means knit three, seam 
one alternately. 

Cast one hundred and twenty-one stitches on 
one needle, knit them off on three needles, knit- 
ting three more on the first than on either of the 
others, which, when the stocking is joined, by 
knitting two from the first needle on the last, will 
leave forty stitches on two needles, and forty-one 
on the third. The forty-one stitches must be on 
the back needle, which is the one where you see 
the thread of silk left at the commencement of the 
stocking. The stocking is ribbed by knit three, 
seam one every round, excepting on the back 



needle containing the forty-one stitches, where 
the centre or twenty-first stitch must always be 
seamed. With this needle proceed as follows: 

Knit three, seam one; knit three, seam one; 
knit three, seam one ; knit three, seam one ; knit 
three, seam two; knit three, seam one; knit three, 
seam one ; knit three, seam one ; knit three, seam 
one ; knit three, seam one. 

Continue to knit round and round the three 
needles, according to the foregoing directions, 
until the stocking is fourteen inches in length, 
when the narrowing of the leg commences. This 
is always done on the back needle. 

When within three of the centre-stitch knit 
two together, seam one, seam the centre-stitch, 
knit one, slip one, knit one, put the slipped stitch 
over the knitted stitch, then continue to rib the 
stocking as before, by knitting three stitches and 
seaming one. 

On reaching the back needle again, it will be 
found to have two stitches less; therefore knit 
two stitches and seam one in the ribbing close to 
the centre-stitch on each side. 

Objections have been made to ribbing on account 
of the difficulty in narrowing ; but it can be very 
neatly done by carefully following these direc- 
tions, knitting or seaming the stitches as the rib 
looks best. Always seam the centre-stitch, and 
leave one stitch on each side between it and the 
narrowing. Seven rounds plain ribbing are knitted 
between each narrowing. 

Narrow twelve times, two stitches each time, 
when there will be seventeen stitches on the heel 
or back needle. Then rib two inches and a half 
before commencing the heel. 

Heel. — Prepare for heel by ribbing to the end 
of back needle, and from first side, or next needle, 
rib on to back needle sixteen stitches. Rib the 
other twenty four stitches from first side needle to 
another needle. Rib second side needle to within 
sixteen stitches of the end ; these sixteen must be 
passed to the heel or back needle without knitting. 
There should now be forty-nine stitches on the 
back needle, and twenty-four on each side needle. 
The two side needles are not used again until the 
heel is completed. 

The heel is made by ribbing alternate rows — 
the back row is knit one, seam three — until thirty- 
seven rows are completed. Each row is commenced 
by knitting, but the first stitch of every row must 
be slipped instead of knitted. On reaching the 

centre-stitch of the thirty-seventh row, seam two 
together, which brings the centre-stitch to an end. 
There should now be forty-eight stitches on the 
.heel needle. 

Thirty-eighth row. Round of heel is plain 
knitting; the under part of the foot is not ribbed. 
Seam thirty-one stitches, seam two together, * 
turn the needle, knit fifteen stitches, knit two 
together, again turn the needle, seam fifteen 
stitches, seam two together. Repeat from * until 
there are only sixteen stitches remaining on the 
needle. This completes the heel. 

With the needle containing the sixteen stitches 
take up, and as you take up knit twenty stitches 
from the side of the heel, knit four stitches off 
front needle on the same. Rib all the stitches 
from both front needles — except the four last — on 
another needle. (The front needle is ribbed 
throughout until the narrowing for the toe is 
commenced.) The four last stitches must be 
knitted on a thircl needle, with which take up 
(knitting each as it is taken up) twenty stitches 
from the side of the heel. Add to these eight 
stitches from the other side needle. There should 
then be thirty-two stitches on each side needle, 
and forty stitches on the front needle. The next 
needle, which is the first side needle, knit plain. 
Rib front needle. Knit second side needle plain. 

First side needle * knit plain until within six 
stitches of the end; knit two together; knit four. 

Front needle. Rib. 

Second side needle. Knit four, slip one ; knit 
one, put the slipped stitch over the knitted one ; 
knit plain to end of needle. 

Knit two rounds of the stocking plain (always 
ribbing the front needle). 

Repeat from * until the foot is sufficiently nar- 
rowed, which will be when there are eighty-eight 
stitches on all the needles. Knit the foot about 
eight inches long, including the heel, though this 
measurement may of course be varied to suit the 
needs of the wearer. 

Narrowing for the Toe. — The front needle 
must now be knit plain, not ribbed. Pnft^as many 
stitches on the front needle as there are on the 
other two together. To accomplish this, take two 
stitches from each side needle, and place them on 
the front needle, which should give twenty-two 
on each side needle, and forty-four on the front 

Commence the toe at the front needle by knit- 



ting one, slipping one, knitting one, putting the 
slipped-stitch over the knitted one, knitting plain 
to within three stitches of the end, knitting two 
together, and lastly knitting one. 

First side needle. Knit one, slip one; knit 
one, put the slipped stitch over the knitted one ; 
knit plain to the end of the needle. 

Second side needle. Knit plain to within three 
of end ; knit two together, knit one. This nar- 
rowing is repeated every third round, — the inter- 
vening ones being knitted plain, — until there are 
about forty-four stitches in all left on your needles. 
Knit front and back stitches together, casting 
them off as they are knitted. 

For the manufacture of these stockings, as well 
as wristers, purses, edgings, etc., the writer can 
warmly recommend the " Florence knitting-silk/ ' 
which may be obtained at the fancy-goods stores 
in any large town, or will be sent by mail on 
application to the Nonotuck Silk Company, 18 
Summer street, Boston, Massachusetts. While less 
expensive than the imported knitting-silk, it is 
remarkably smooth and even, the colors are bril- 
liant, and, still better, will stand washing perfectly, 
if care is taken never to use hot water. It is sold 
in half ounce balls at seventy-five cents an ounce, 
and is furnished in so great a variety of shades 
that any taste may be satisfied. In the writer's 
opinion, the prettiest colors for stockings are 
black, lavender, pale-blue, cardinal, and purple. 
Pink and old-gold are also much admired, es- 
pecially for evening wear. 

Knitted Silk Wristers. — Materials : Half an 
ounce of knitting-silk and four needles, No. 17. 
For a pair of average size for ladies' wear, cast 
eight-eight stitches. Knit in ribs, alternating 
three stitches plain and one seamed seventy-four 
rounds, which will make the depth three and a 
half to four inches. Bind off loosely, and finish 
with crocheted edge in shell-stitch. 

The number of stitches required for gentlemen's 
sizes is ninety-six, one hundred, or one hundred 
and four. 

Infants' Socks. — It would be difficult to find a 
prettier style of infants' socks than that for which 
the following directions are given. The design 
is a white stocking and colored shoe. 

Materials : Half ounce of white and half ounce 
of colored single zephyr-wool. Large size steel 
knitting-needles. Cast twenty-five stitches. 

First row. Seam two, knit two plain, put 

thread over and knit two together, seam two, knit 
six, seam two, knit two, put thread over and knit 
two together, seam two, knit one, put thread over 
and knit two together. 

Second row. Knit one, knit next stitch, and 
before taking it off the needle seam it also, knit 
three, seam two, put thread around the needle 
and seam two together, knit two plain, seam six, 
knit two, seam two, put thread around the needle 
and seam two together, knit two. 

Third row. Seam two, knit two, put thread 
over needle and knit two together, seam two, 
knit six plain, seam two, knit two plain, put thread 
over and knit two together, seam two, put thread 
over, knit two together, put thread over, knit two 

Fourth row. Knit one plain, knit one, and 
before it is off the needle seam it, knit one, and 
before it is off the needle seam it, knit two, seam 
two, put thread around the needle and seam two 
together, knit two, seam six, knit two, seam two, 
wrap the thread around the needle and seam two 
together, knit two. 

Fifth row. Seam two, knit two plain, put 
thread over and knit two together, seam two, take 
three off on a long pin, knit three, put the three 
taken off on the pin back on the same needle and 
knit them, seam two, knit two, put thread over 
and knit two together, seam two, put thread over 
and knit two together, put thread over and knit 
two together, put thread over and knit two 

Sixth row. Knit one, knit and seam one with- 
out taking off the needle, knit one plain, knit one, 
seaming it also before taking off the needle, knit 
one plain, knit one, seaming it also before taking 
off the needle, knit two plain, seam two, put 
thread over and seam two together, knit two, 
seam six, knit two, seam two, put thread over and 
seam two together, knit two plain. 

Seventh row. Seam two, knit two plain, put 
thread over and knit two together, seam two, knit 
six, seam two, knit two, put thread over and knit 
two together, seam two and knit plain all the rest 
of the needle. 

Eighth row. Bind off six stitches, knit five 
plain (bind very loosely ; this forms a point), seam 
two, put thread around the needle and seam two 
together, knit two, seam six, knit two, seam two, 
put thread around the needle and seam two 
together, knit two. 



Ninth row. Seam two, take two stitches off on 
a long pin, knit two, put those taken off back on 
the same needle and knit them, seam two, knit 
six, seam two, take two off on a long pin, knit 
two, put those taken off back on the same needle 
and knit them, * seam two, knit one, put thread 
over and knit two. 

Tenth row. Same as second row. 

Eleventh row. Same as third row. 

Repeat fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh, eighth, and 
ninth rows, thus completing a second point. 

Again repeat second, third, fourth, fifth, sixth, 
seventh, eighth, and ninth rows. Cast fourteen 
more stitches on needle containing the stitches, 
and proceed as follows : 

Seam two, knit two, put thread over and knit 
two together, seam two, knit six, seam two, take 
two off on a long pin, knit two, put back the two 
taken off and knit them. Continue from * in 
ninth row until three more points are made, then 
bind off fourteen stitches, and continue according 
to directions until three more points are made 
(nine in all). The fourteen stitches are cast out 
to form the instep. Bind off. 

With the colored wool take up fourteen or six- 
teen stitches across the top of the instep, knit back 
and forward till six rows are made (twice across 

forms one row), then narrow in the middle of 
the needle, and continue to knit till ten rows 
are completed, the first six being included in 
the ten. 

With a second needle take up thirty stitches 
along the right side of the instep, then with a 
third needle knit across the instep. Use a fourth 
needle to take up thirty stitches on the other side 
of instep, and knit round and round like a stock- 
ing until six rows are made, then narrow at the 
end of the first needle, middle of the second, and 
first of the third. Knit back without narrowing. 
Narrow next round. Knit back without narrow- 
ing, and so continue till there are only seven 
stitches on the instep needle, then narrow every 
round till all on the instep needle are used. Bind 
off the stitches on the other two needles, sew up 
the socks, and pass a narrow ribbon, the shade of 
the colored wool used, around the ankle, tying it 
in a neat little bow in front. 

It is a wonderful improvement to the socks to 
shape them on a tiny wooden last, which can 
usually be procured at a shoemaker's. Dip them 
in clear cold water, and draw them over the last, 
leaving them on the last "to dry. It is scarcely 
necessary to say that but one sock can be dried 
on a last at one time. 


Bv A. J. H. Duganne. 

By the Rhine, one summer's day, 
Shadows to the eastward lay ; 
Sunset glories burned afar, 
Gilding tower and mountain-bar. 

And in shadow flecked with sun, 
Faring forward, one by one, 
Travelers three, on highway parched, 
Wiped their foreheads as they marched, 

And the second traveler then 
Said, " There's room for other men !" 
And he doffed his cap, to lay 
Head and heels another way. 

Thus the twain, in shadows green, 
Silent lay, with tree between, 
Till a cheery voice to both 
Said, " I join you, by my troth ! 

Till they, one by one, espied — 
Gnarled above the roadway wide — 
Branches flecked with sun and shade 
By an ancient pear-tree made. 

And the first, who lightly trod, 
Cast his cap upon the sod ; 
Here, 11 quoth he, " my bed shall be ; 
Mother Nature gives it me I" 

Here be rest for man, I trow," 
Quoth he, as he wiped his brow ; 
41 And around this pear-tree root, 
Look, my mates, there's mellow fruit !" 

Pears he gathered,— one, two, three; 
And, with pause, on bended knee, 
Said, " If trees may fruitage bear, 
Surely men may fruitage share !" 



By A. £. C. Maskell. 

Perhaps no State was more to be pitied during I and beautiful lady to place herself in so much 
the late war than Western Virginia. Partly in ; danger. But she found the Virginia people warm- 
sympathy with the North and partly with the hearted and impulsive, and very soon became 
South, friend and foe were to them alike. j much attached to them. 

Northern soldiers came and pillaged their barns One afternoon, near the close of her third 
and hen-roosts; Southern recruits came, com- ' week of school, at recess, her little ones came 
manded, and took prisoners. In fact, much of running in the greatest fright and flocked trem- 
Western Virginia was just like a boy sitting ; blingly around her. 

astride a fence, af a loss to know which side "Oh, teacher," they exclaimed, "the soldiers 
to take. In no place in the Union was there \ are coming !" 

such a division of sentiment; in no place were ! "Are they?" said the teacher, soothingly, 
so many houses divided against themselves. It ' "Well, they will not hurt us." 
was no uncommon thing to hear the wife and , "Dear Miss Annie, you know nothing about 
mother sing "We'll hang Jeff Davis on a sour i them. If they are the guerrillas, they would 
apple-tree," and not an hour later the father or ' just as leave shoot one of us down as a crow." 
son was singing the same bad luck to " Abe ( "Are they Union or rebel soldiers I" asked 
Lincoln." The Northerners knew not whether j the teacher, soberly. 

these people were their friends or foes; the | "They are dressed in blue, but they are coming 
Southerners knew not whether they were foes from the rebel land, and the guerrillas wear 
or friends. In fact, many of the farmers along the blue or the gray, just as they please." 
the banks of the Ohio and the Big Sandy rivers i The teacher moved to an open window, and 
had no scruples about treating the Northern and ! seated herself that she might see them pass. 
Southern soldiers just alike. And why not, when \ Captain Henderson, for he it was, the leader 
their eldest born was, perhaps, in the Southern ' of the band, gave a start of surprise as he beheld 
army, and their youngest, the fair and curly-headed such a picture of loveliness. He tipped his hat, 
boy, in the Northern ? bowed, blushed, and then suddenly wheeled 

Deeds of cruelty were committed by both ' around and rode up to the window, 
armies, especially by that class of soldiers called " You are the teacher here, I supppse?" he said, 
the bushwhackers. On the Ohio River, and near She bowed her head politely, 
the Big Sandy, was a town called Ceredo, and j " Have any rebel soldiers passed here to-day?" 
here was stationed a company under the gallant : "I have not seen any," she replied. 
Captain Henderson. It was a trying position for ; "You sympathize with the Union?" he asked, 
any Union company, since the hills, only a few | hesitatingly. 

miles back, were largely infested with guerrillas ' " I should hope so," she answered, quietly, 
and Southern soldiers. The blackness of war ' considering the State I represent." 
burst upon them with all its fury. Churches were i "All very well," he answered. "You see, one 
turned into barracks, and the inhabitants, all that , of the most prominent men in Ceredo disappeared 
could, fled from their homes, leaving them to be J a few days ago, and we have been out looking for 
taken possession of by squatters and refugees from i him. You may have seen him pass here, perhaps — 
farther South. The appearance of this town, . Mr. Walker?" 

when seen by the writer, baffles description. ; " An old gentleman on horseback, sir, with a 
She only remembers a number of squalid houses, ' high hat and a market-basket full of grapevine 
with scarcely a whole pane of glass in any of ' shoots, sir ?" 

them. Near this place came a young lady from ( "The very same. He has a farm three miles 
the North, and began teaching in a large frame i back, and was going to visit it. He has not been 
church. Only necessity compelled this young I heard of since." 



" How terrible it must be for his family !" 

"Yes, they are nearly beside themselves with 
grief. It is thought that he has been killed, back 
here among the hills. But my men are getting 
impatient ; I must away. If you ever get into 
trouble, Miss Annie, you will know where to send 
for help." 

" Indeed, sir, I think there is more danger on 
the other side. If I can ever benefit you, sir, at 
such a time, I shall be only too glad to do it." 

He looked at her admiringly, and flung a kiss 
from the tips of his fingers as he rode away. 

The teacher looked frightened, when the eldest 
of her pupils spoke up, saying : 

"You needn't care, Miss Annie. He has the 
name of being the most honorable man in Western 
Virginia. He wouldn't harm one hair of your 
head for the world. If we had known it was Cap- 
tain Henderson, we shouldn't have run, you bet." 

"My dear child, why will you use slang phrases? 
How many times shall I have to speak to you 
about it?" 

"Excuse me, Miss Annie; I forgot," replied 
the girl, blushing. 

Three weeks later, when poor old Mr. Walker 
was almost forgotten, while a boy was out hunting 
for his cow, he stumbled against an old black hat, 
and a few paces on was a market-basket, black 
with the numerous rains that had fallen upon it, 
and there, too, was a pair of boots and a human 
body. The boy at once realized the truth, and 
fled from the spot to spread the news. 

The next day the company at Ceredo went with 
a wagon and gathered up all that was left of old 
Mr. Walker. 

The teacher and her pupils, with faces white 
with awe, went out to the wagon, and tenderly 
Captain Henderson raised the white cloth that 
they might see the remains. 

Annie Compton shuddered, and clutched hold 
of the wagon for support, while she murmured, 
"This horrid, horrid war!" 

" Yes, this horrid war !" repeated Captain Hen- 
derson. "The poor old man was shot in the 
bac k, and from the look of his clothing fourteen 
riflemen discharged their weapons at once." 

" But why should they feel such hatred towards 
this poor old man ?" 

" Because he had orders to draft them for Union 
soldiers, and draft them he did." 

11 Poor, poor old man I" 

"The cowards will be arrested and tried for 

" Captain Henderson, do they really know who 
shot him?" 

"'Most as sure as we want to, who were the 
ringleaders. I shall give all my spare time to fer- 
reting out the case; and the assassins shall suffer." 

"Oh, Captain Henderson, I am really afraid 
you will get yourself into trouble." And the fair 
girl's delicate brows knit with pain. 

A tender look lighted up the captain's hand- 
some face for a moment, and then, with a quiver 
in his voice, which stirred up strange feelings in 
the maiden's soul, he replied, "Duty must be 
done at the sacrifice of everything. Get up, 
Dolly." And with a chirrup to his horse, he was 
off to overtake his company. 

It must have been near midnight, a month after 
this, that Annie Compton was awakened by hear- 
ing something like the pattering of rain-drops or 
the continual dropping of leaves. 

Very much surprised, because the stars were 
smiling in blandly upon her from the open win- 
dows, and also because it was a hot flight in June, 
not the time for falling leaves, she crept out of 
bed softly and went to the front window. 

What was her surprise to see a long line of 
soldiers filing as noiselessly as possible down the 
long lane toward the house. 

"What lawlessness are they up to now!" she 
thought, with a shiver, as she stood riveted to the 
spot until the last one had passed, and was seek- 
ing admittance at the back part of the house. 
14 They won't get much this time," she added 

to herself; "for Mr. N keeps his horses 

locked up in the cellar, and Mrs. N has all 

her silver buried under the coal-heap." Then she 
was startled by hearing low voices under her back 

She flitted to it like a trembling bird, and sank 
down on a chair, if perchance she might hear 
anything that was said. 

"Get the fellows something to eat; we are 
hungry," she heard in rough, surly tones. 

"You shall have it as soon as we can make it 
ready," she heard Mr. N reply. 

"I say, N , are there any Union folks 

around here? You see, we've got a job to do 
arter we get our grub, and you don't suppose 
there'll be any slippin'-up on us while we are 



"None at all. My family are all as true as 
steel to the persecuted South. We know when to 
hold our tongues, however. A man don't want 
his property confiscated. Stay ! one moment ; I 
forgot. There's a Yankee school-marm on the 
place; but she's only a woman; couldn't do 

"Better lock her in her room until after we are 
gone, then. An ounce of prevention is better than 
a pound of cure, you know. We'll give Captain 
Henderson no chance to escape. This night we 
capture him, and perhaps hang him on the first 
tree we find." 

"But," expostulated Mr. N • 

" He deserves every bit of it, sir. Think how 
many he has imprisoned in that Walker affair." 

Annie Compton's veins were swelling ready to 
burst with mingled feelings of fear, anguish, and 
something else she could not just then define. 
But the poor child was in love with Captain Hen- 
derson, and he was to be cruelly murdered. One 
moment she felt that she must faint with terror, 
the next she braced herself up against the feeling, 
and felt that she must fly to the captain at all 
hazards. At that moment she heard a key turn 
in her lock and knew that she was a prisoner. 
Down-stairs she could hear the preparation of a 
great meal, w,hile she paced her room wringing 
her hands. Suddenly she paused before the front 
window, with the thought, "Yes, I believe I can 
do it, though I never did such a thing before in 
all my life. I can but try it, at any rate." Then 
she threw off her night-clothes with trembling 
haste, and soon robed herself entirely in black. 

" Now I shall be just the color of the night, 
and they will not see me," she murmured to her- 
self, as she fastened the last pin. " If I can but 
get out on the piazza and slide down one of the 
pillars to the ground, I am safe ; then away across 
the fields to Ceredo. If I can but save him ! Dear 
Lord, help me!" And with this prayer she was 
out on the piazza, and had fastened herself to one 
pillar of the portico as closely as a leech. 

With a beating heart she reached the ground, and 
with swift-gliding footsteps sped over the fields. 

But the poor child trembled almost as much 
when she drew near Ceredo as she had when 
sliding down the pillar of the portico. Her ex- 
treme sensitiveness made her shrink from coming 
in contact with so many soldiers, and as a sentinel 
cried out, "Who goes there?" she answered, 

in trembling tones, "Oh, please, sir, I am nobody 
but a woman come to see Captain Henderson." 

"A rebel spy, I suppose," answered the man. 

"Oh, no, no, sir; but there are five or six 
companies of rebels down the road, and they are 
coming to take Captain Henderson. Please let 
me see him, quick, that I may tell him all." 

The man said not a word, but gave a shrill 
whistle, which was answered by a soldier. 

" Here, show this lady to Captain Henderson. 
She has important news for him." 

"Miss Annie, is this you?" inquired Hender- 
son, approaching her with extended hands. 

"You are in danger, Captain Henderson, 
and you must flee for your life," she gasped ; and 
she trembled so that he came and placed one arm 
around her waist. 

Her head sank upon his shoulder, and with 
tears and tremors of nervous fright she soon told 
him all. 

"Ha! that's their game, is it? Well, then I 
must be getting ready for them." 

" Oh, Captain Henderson," she pleaded, " please 
don't fight. There are so many of them, that you 
can do nothing. There is not a person in all 
Ceredo they care about but you and your com- 
pany. Please, Captain Henderson, just give 
them the slip this time, won't you? They'll 
never know but that you had an errand some- 
where. Oh, sir, for my sake, don't fight to-night !" 
And she clung tremblingly to him. 

"Annie, dear Annie," he murmured, "for your 
sake I would do anything that is right. I will 
send my company away to a place of safety and 
then I shall be back to take you to your boarding- 

"But suppose we should meet the rebels?" 

"They will come the back road from Mr. 
— 's, that they may take us unawares. I 


shall go the front, and we will be so on the alert that 

if they do chance to take the front road we shall 

have time to turn down a cross-road or into the 

woods. Just remain here until I come back for 


In ten minutes Captain Henderson was at the 
door, mounted on his horse. 

"I could not get a side-saddle for you," he 
said; "so you may ride on my horse, in front 
of me." 

A picket lifted her up and placed her in the 
captain's arms. 



Annie felt his arms tremble as they clasped 
close around her waist, and her heart was so full 
of joy that she could not speak a word. 

"Annie, tell me," he whispered, as they drew 
near the farm-house, "do you love me?" 

"Oh, Captain Henderson ! M she whispered. 

"It seems to me, if I only knew it, it would 
make the long days of this horrid war shorter, 
Annie; and then we should get married, you 
know, and I would try so hard to make you 
happy, dearest." And he clasped her closely to 
him, and laid his cheek appealingly down upon 
her forehead. 

"Captain Henderson," she whispered, "have 
I not proved that I love you?" 

" Enough, my good angel ! Just one kiss now, 
and I am satisfied until the war is over. What ! 
crying? Don't, dear, you unman me. It won't 
be long, now, I think, and if we pray, God will 
save us to one another. But if He does not, we 
shall meet in heaven, Annie." 

" Yes," she whispered, tearfully, and then glided 
down from his arms and entered the front gate. 

He waited until she regained her room and flut- 
tered a white handkerchief to him, and then he 
was off to join his company. 

The rebels were foiled ; and they do not know 
to this day that Captain Henderson was saved 
from their hands by his own beautiful wife when 
in girlhood. 


By Ella F. Mosby. 

The Musical Festival Association, of Cincinnati, 
in order to encourage the development of music 
as an art within our country, and stimulate the 
efforts of our musicians, offered the prize of one 
thousand dollars to the native-born composer who 
should produce the best composition employing 
both chorus and orchestra, and occupying at least 
half an hour in its performance. Twenty-five 
works were sent to the Festival Board for exami- 
nation, comprising a wide variety of subjects and 
styles, and many of them of no mean merit. The 
judges were men full of enthusiasm for the art of 
music, and possessed of a large and delicate appre- 
ciation of its grand accord of harmonies and its 
subtler shades of exquisite significance. They 
were Theodore Thomas; Otto Singer, of Cincin- 
nati ; Dr. Leopold Damrosch, of New York City ; 
Mr. Asger Hamerik, of Baltimore, Md., and Mr. 
Carl Zcrralm, of Boston, Mass. The majority of 
these judges decided in favor of a symphonic 
cantata for solos, chorus, and orchestra, entitled 
"Scenes from Longfellow's ' Golden Legend,' " 
by Mr. Dudley Buck, of New York, widely known 
for his church and organ music, and famous as 
the composer of the Centennial Cantata. 

This composition bears a double interest to us, 
from its being founded on the work of an Ameri- 
can poet, and composed by an American musician, 
giving us reason to hope that the day may not be 

far distant, when, to the pride of our freedom, 
and the broad brotherliness of our social life, and 
the glories of our landscapes, may be added the 
charm of an artistic atmosphere, clothing even the 
common things of our labor and domestic life 
with beauty. Nor should it be forgotten, when 
that morning dawns, how much we owe to the 
noble-spirited and high-minded citizens of this 
Western city, who, in the midst of the smoke and 
coal-dust of Cincinnati, have given green parks to 
delight the wearied eye, and a fountain so exqui- 
sitely illustrating the uses and delights of flowing 
waters by its carved figures and groups, as well as 
by its sparkling and springing waves, that a king 
and an artist in one has envied its beauty; who 
have thrown opeii to the people the rolling gran- 
deurs and choral harmonies of Music's greatest 
works, and in the beautiful suburbs have given 
gracious homes and wide-stretching grounds, lovely 
woods and gardens, for the pleasure of every 
passer-by. No one can come to this city from 
the carelessly-kept lawns and huge, unsightly edi- 
fices of the usual American capitalist and not 
bear away with him some new suggestion of the 
meaning of wealth. 

It is interesting to trace the di (Terence of treat- 
ment which the two artists, poet and musician, 
necessarily use with the same theme. This, "The 
Golden Legend," is not based, as would seem 



from its title, on the famous Legenda A urea t but 
is simply so called by the poet, because as gold is 
above all "baser metals, so the love, self-sacrifice, 
and devotion commemorated in the story excel 
all baser passions, surpass all lower motives. The 
tale is a simple one, and was told (and perhaps 
invented) by one of the old Minnesingers of the 
twelfth century, Hartmann von der Aue. A 
prince, Henry of Hoheneck, has long languished 
under a distressing malady, which one of the 
doctors of Salerno, with the usual weird and 
superstitious character of medicine when it was 
rather a species of imposture than a science, tells 
him can only be cured by the blood which a 
maiden shall shed willingly for his sake. Lucifer, 
in the garb of a wandering physician, after giving 
him an elixir to drink, which bore the then unfa- 
miliar Arabic name of alcohol, persuades the 
prince to accept the gift of life which Elsie, an 
obscure but noble-hearted peasant girl, offers him. 
They go to Salerno together for this purpose; but, 
at the last, Prince Henry's slumbering manhood 
awakens in his soul, and at the risk of his own 
death he averts the sacrifice, and returns home, full 
of strength and vigor, to Hoheneck, with Elsie as 
his bride. The poet uses the comparatively unim- 
portant feature of the journey to Salerno to illus- 
trate fully and beautifully the wild, varied, and 
picturesque social life of the Middle Ages, which 
existed then out-of-doors to a far greater extent than 
at present. They witness a miracle-play as they 
travel onward, hear a monkish sermon, and attend 
festivals of the Church, which boldly dominated 
and deeply colored the lives of the masses of the 
people in that period. As they stop to rest at 
the various monasteries along the high-road, the 
opportunity is given for a fine contrast of monkish 
character: the solemn meditation in the twilight- 
haunted cloisters, the wild revelry among the sen- 
sual and earthly-minded brethren of cowl and 

The composer has, of course, laid aside much 
of this material, and indeed has left to the 
orchestral numbers the representation of this rich 
and quaint society. In this respect the music of 
•'The Golden Legend" belongs distinctively to 
the modern school rendered so popular by Berlioz 
and Liszt. Berlioz, in his dramatic symphony, 
"Romeo and Juliet," has even employed the 
orchestra for the scene between Juliet in the 
balcony and her lover, wandering in the moon- 

lit gardens of the old Italian palace grounds. 
The music throbs through the languors and 
splendors of the Southern summer night, and 
weaves itself as through long sprays of flowering 
vines, heav) with fragrance and dews, into the 
trembling ecstasies of the human lovers. So the 
orchestra here takes up the recital of the journey, as 

''Onward and onward the highway runs to the distant city, 

impatiently bearing 
Tidings of human joy and disaster, of love and of hate, of 

doing and daring," 

and the little band wends on its way over the high 
Alps, through early mornings, and noontides and 
evening shadows, with weariness and rest and 
hidden hopes, winding another thread into the 
many-colored woof they see, until it closes with 
the holy music of St. Hildebert's hymn. 


Hark ! What sweet sounds are those whose accents holy 
Fill the warm noon with music sad and sweet ? 

It is a band of pilgrims, moving slowly 
On their long journey, with uncovered feet. 


Urbs ccelestis, urbs heata, 
Supra petram collocata, 
Urbs in portu satis tuto, 
De longinquo te saluto ! 

To the orchestra is left also the description of 
the monkish carouse in the far-off convent of 
Hirschau, situated in the shadows of the Black 
Forest, and a rich piece of coloring is translated 
into the language of tone in this instrumental 
narration. It is an assemblage of monks in the 
refectory at midnight, stirred to wild revelry by 
the earthly and voluptuous songs of Lucifer dis- 
guised as Friar Paul, who sings a mediaeval 
drinking-song, which has been well translated 
for this work by Edmund C. Stedman, but to 
whose unctuous enjoyment of the flowing wine 
no translator could do justice. It is as follows : 

Ave! color vini clari, ' 

Dulcis potus, non amari, 
Tua nos inebriari, 
Digneris potentia ! 

O ! quam placens in colore ! 
O ! quam fragrans in odore ! 
O! quam sapidum in ore ! 
Dulce linguae vinculum 1 



Felix venter quem intrabis! 
Felix guttur quod rigabis ! 
Felix os quod tu lavabis ! 
Et beata labia ! 


Funde vinum, funde ! 
Tanquam sint fluminis unda*, 
Nee quaeras unde, 
Sed fundas semper abunde ! 

Translation by Mr. Sled man. 

Hail ! thou vintage clear and ruddy ! 
Sweet of taste and fine of body ! 
Through thine aid we soon shall study 
How to make us glorious ! 

O ! thy color erubescent ! 
O ! thy fragrance evanescent ! 
O ! within the mouth, how pleasant ! 
Thou the tongue's prsetorius ! 

Blest the stomach where thou wendest ! 
Blest the throat which thou distendest ! 
Blest the mouth which thou befriendest, 
And the lips victorious ! 


Pour the wine, then, pour it ! 
Let the wave bear all before it ! 
There's none to score it, 
So pour in plenty, pour it ! 

This riotous bacchanal (in which the first 
theme, which is always used to represent Lucifer, 
or the principle of evil, and which sounds like 
derisive whisperings through the journey to Sa- 
lerno, is heard repeatedly) ends by the sudden 
entrance of the Abbot, speaking his condemna 
tions and reproaches through the mouth of the 
trombone in the stately Gregorian measures. 
There is, throughout the whole composition, a 
contest and struggle between the two principles 
of selfishness and love, characterized each by its 
appropriate melody, or melodic phrase. The first 
Gregorian tone is used in all the music descriptive 
of Elsie and her pure and gentle womanhood, and 
the Gregorian music, in its chants and majestic 
measures, reappears in every triumph over evil. 
We may consider the wild scene on the church- 
towers of Strasburg, with which the cantata opens, 
as the key-note to the whole composition. It is a 
dark night, and as the powers of wind and tem- 
pest sweep through the troubled air, the evil 
spirits are abroad, seeking to pull down the cross 
and the bells, and desolate the inner sanctuary. 
Each time are they driven back, baffled and con- 

quered, before the invisible consecration and the 
guardianship of spiritual hosts. After every de- 
feat the bells break forth into a grand Latin 
hymn, and at last, as the malignant spirits of the 
air sweep away in a rush of despairing rage, the 
sounds of the organ and of choiring voices arise 
from the interior of the old church, speaking of 
eternal vigilance and protection. Nothing could 
be more perfectly mediaeval than this whole pro- 


Hasten ! hasten ! 

O ye spirits ! 

From its station drag the ponderous 

Cross of iron, that to mock us 

Is uplifted high in air ! 

VOICES {female chorus). 
O, we cannot ! 
For around it 

All the Saints and Guardian Angels, 
Throng in legions to protect it ; 
They defeat us everywhere. 

THE BELLS (male chorus). 
Laudo Deum verum ! 
Plebem vocoj 
Congrego clerum ! 


Lower ! lower ! 

Hover downward ! 

Seize the loud vociferous hells, and 

Clashing, clanging, to the pavement 

Hurl them from their windy tower ! 


All thy thunders 

Here are harmless ! 

For these bells have been anointed, 

And baptized with holy water ! 

They defy our utmost power. 


Defunctos ploro, 
Pestem fugo ! 
Festa decoro ! 

Aim your lightnings 
At the oaken, 

Massive, iron-studded portals! 
Sack the house of God, and scatter 
Wide the ashes of the dead ! 

(>, we cannot ! 
The Apostles 

And the Marty rs, wrapped in mantles 
Stand as wardens at the entrance, 
Stand as sentinels o'erhead ! 





Ezcito lentos ! 
Dissipo vcntos ! 
Paco cruentos ! 


Baffled, baffled ! 


Craven spirits, leave this labor 

Unto Time, the great Destroyer ! 

Come away, ere night is gone ! 


Onward, onward! 

With the night -wind, 

Over field and farm and forest, 

Lonely homesteads, darksome hamlet, 

Blighting all we breathe upon ! 


Nocte surgentes 
Vigilcmus omnes. 

The same Gregorian tone that closes this pro- 
logue is the basis of the chorus which ends the . 
work by celebrating the victory of love over the 
ignoble selfishness of evil. It is only broken by 
the lines that tell of the downfall of Lucifer, and 
his vanishing away like the dying echoes of a cry 
of lamentation. 

The great ecclesiastical organization of the 
Middle Ages spread like a network all over the 
land of Europe ; and in every gathering of men ! 
and women at home and abroad, in every trans- 
action, domestic or public, at the file or the 
market, there is plainly evident its mark and dis- , 
tinctive tendency. This prevailing color, if I may 
so speak, is very happily varied and brightened by 
the three sea-pieces beautifully introduced toward 
the close of the cantata. It is true that in the : 
first, Elsie's song from the terrace at Genoa, . 
there is still present in her mind an image of 
white-robed choristers, as she listens to the waves 
along the low sands, following each other from 
deep caves, one after the other, to die away on the 
shores below. But in the dreamy barcarolle — for 
the orchestra only — which succeeds, we seem to 
be taken close to the heart of the deep sea with 
its mystery and romance. Only one fisherman 
may be seen, floating alone 

" With shadowy sail, in yonder boat, 
And singing softly to the night," 

and he grows to us the embodied voice of the sea, 
whose soft, unspeakable murmurings interweave 

his verses with tones of melodious rest. In this 
the sea calls to the maiden, and if it were not for 
the warm human love at her heart, we feel that its 
longing, its breathings of mysterious sweetness and 
calm, could not be denied. 

Fresh and clear follows the chorus of Mediterra- 
nean sailors in Chorus XI., with the bracing stir 
of the quickening wind and dashing spray, and 
the swift bounding movement of the felucca on 
the waves. There may be " a dash of rain in the 
air"; but these merry seamen, who pray to the 
"good Saint Antonio," feel no fear of bank or 
breaker as they dash on their short journey south- 

It would have added much to the dramatic 
force in both the poem and the cantata if the two 
characters of Prince Henry and Elsie had not 
been so attuned to the same minor chords of 
regret and. meditation. They are alike grave, 
thoughtful, and inclined rather to the neutral 
colors of the contemplative life than the passion- 
ate joys and pains of more marked natures. Still, 
there is in Elsie's purity a suggestion of a white 
lily growing in virginal glory of untouched and 
stainless whiteness in the cloister of its own blades 
which leaves us little to desire. The twilight 
coloring that usually surrounds them is beauti- 
fully broken with gleams of color in the last duet, 
which I will give as a fitting close to an interest- 
ing work of American artists. 


Behold ! the hilltops all aglow 
With purple and with amethyst ; 
While the whole valley deep below 
Is filled, and seems to overflow 
With a fast-rising tide of mist. 


The evening air grows damp and chill ; 
Let us go in. 


Ah! not so soon. 

See yonder fire ! It is the moon 

Slow rising o'er the eastern hill. 


It glimmers on the forest tips, 
And through the dewy foliage drips 
In little rivulets of light, 
And makes the heart in love with night. 
In life's delight, in death's dismay, 
In storm and sunshine, night and day, 
In health and sickness, in decay, 
Here and hereafter, I am thine 1 



By Dudley Diuues, Ksy. 

tilled with fiui:,-i 
Hilar '■««* He* » 

Or ili.ii sweet hir.l that 
While vet the winds . 
And fill Ihe air with c 

lie came. I know nut h 
Or why lie came lu si 
I'nlci* he knew 1 Ion 

Ami iluiiijjht his -."tiy v. 

And mi it JUL I lhuu|< 

! ami decked il 
nail their milt 
a the ttraiu 

11 -ti.iwv-lirMsterf snow-hinl, o!l 

I'll dream of thy sweet snug, till S|nin- 
Her merry Iruuji "f warhlcis liriilj;. 

And nWercti sweet rill every cntfl. 

And wt-eii thu-e lirifililn (lay* are here, 

Know, little bird, wIum simple ail 

Hath through the mow-htonn lunched my hejfl, 
Still shall thou be in memory dear. 




Success of American Competition. — In his new book 
on "Foreign Work and English Wages," Mr. Thomas 
Brassey, M.P., maintains a hopeful feeling with regard to 
England's immediate industrial future, yet freely admits that 
in the long run the United States must " succeed to the place 
of the parent country as the firnt of commercial and manu- 
facturing powers." The present success of American manu- 
facturers in certain trades, he says, " may rellect on the want 
of adaptability and versatility shown by English firms in 
meeting the particular wants of markets whose conditions 
are unlike those with which the English exporter is chiefly 
familiar; but th:-v do not indicate any decline in English 
superiority as regards the great wholesale trr les. Cuba, fur 
example, prefers to import her agricultural implements, and 
especially her plows, from the United States, because Ameri- 
cans — probably one or two American manufacturers — take 
pains to study the special requirements of Cuban floriculture, 
and adapt their wares to the need of their customers. Simi- 
larly, American engineers have of late obtained a preference 
in our own colonies for their locomotives and railway cars, 
and great alarm and annoyance were felt in England on this 
account But the explanation is simple. The conditions of 
colonial railway-making resemble those of America and not 
of Europe. Their lines, extremely long in proportion to the 
amount of traffic, require light and cheap carriages, ill- 
adapted to European lines; and American experience and 
ingenuity meet these conditions. The ax, again, is the 
special American tool, the tool of a nation which has been 
for two hundred years engaged in clearing regions largely 
occupied by primitive forest ; and the American axes are 
consequently better for countries similarly situated than any 
that Sheffield or Birmingham produce.'' 

Mr. Brassey seems to overlook the fact, of which he must 
be well aware, that the lines of manufacture which he has 
here specified are far from being the only ones in which 
America has risen to successful competition with England 
both at home and abroad. American cutlery has found sale 
in Sheffield, and coals have been carried to Newcastle in the 
shape of American prints to Birmingham. The success of 
American locks in English markets has tilled English lock- 
smiths with well-grounded alarm. 1 Jut one need not thus 
multiply instances. Every reader of the newspaper press 
must recall them in numbers. 

Moreover, precisely the same industrial conditions and 
general business methods which have enabled us to achieve 
such success in disputing England's supremacy in so many 
departments in the great markets of the world still exist, and 
there seems to lie no good reason why they should not lead 
us to new and yet # grcatcr triumphs in the future. The 
inventive genius of the American people his become pro- 
verbial, and it is more than possible that we have as yet 
hardly begun to realize the splendid possibilities of invention. 
And the nation that leads in invention may be expected in 
the future, as in the past, to gain the lead also in productive 

Vol. XVI.— is 

power and in everything else that contributes to supremacy 
in industrial and commercial competition. This principle 
Mr. Brassey admits when he says : " American invention is 
undoubtedly quicker and more active, as well as far more 
versatile than our own, and meets with far more encourage- 
ment both from the law and from the public." So long as 
the present favorable conditions remain, and they will remain 
till the character of our people changes, one may feel per- 
fectly sure that America's advance to the forefront in indus- 
. trial affairs will be certain. And no one need be surprised 
if in commerce and manufactures we shall gain supremacy 
by the same rapid strides as in agriculture. 

George Eliot. — The republic of letters has lost one of its 

1 most honored leaders. George Eliot is dead. After a long 
life of literary activity she parsed quietly away a few weeks 
ago. Her age was about sixty years. Curiously enough, 
the precipe year of her birth is not known. Neither is it 
known whether she was the actual or only the adopted 

« daughter of an English clergyman, in such obscurity re>t the 
fact*, of her earlv life. Surelv we can no longer with reason 
reproach the age of Shaksperc with negligence in preserving 
for posterity >o few authentic records of the personal life of 
its great ma*tcr-q »irit, when, in this age of all-penetrating in- 
quisitiveuess, of insatiable curiosity, about the live* of all 
who are prominent in letters or affairs, — in this age of 
ubiquitous reporter.- and interviewers, — so little is known 

, with certainty about the early year* of this " Nineteenth 
Century Sh.tksperc," a> her enthusiastic admirers have de- 
lighted to call her. 

She has been described as •' small, plain- featured, intelli- 
gent-looking, observant rather than animated — in short, a 
well-bred Englishwoman.'' But for some reason little curi- 
osity is felt about the person and life of Marian Evans, or 
Mrs. Lewis, or Mrs. Cro*s. This is largely doubt, 
to the fact that her life was comparatively uneventful. Our 
great interest clusters about that wonderful intellectuality acquaintance we have made under the name of George 
Eliot. Every one like.*- to imagine what her person should 
have been; but we are perfectly certain that there was no 
corre«pj mding reality. 

Unlike nin<t writers of her sex, she took little pleasure in 
society. She always shunned the broad glare of publicity. 
Her preference was for a life of simple retirement and quiet 
study. At the age when most young ladies are interested 
with the la>t new thing in fashions, and with the doings of 
society, Marian Evans was deeply engaged in the study of 
the classics and the pursuit of philosophy. Her attainments 
in both fields were extraordinary. When >-til 1 a very 

, young lady she became the associate editor of the " West- 
minster Review," and made many contributions to its 
columns. Her fir>t book was a translation of Strau<s's " Life 
of Jesus." This was in 1846. It was not until twelve years 

, later, when she was nearly forty years of age, that her first 



essay in the field of fiction was made. " Scenes of Clerical 
Life" appeared in " Blackwood's Magazine," and at once 
attracted favorable attention. " Adam Bode" followed the 
next year, and the author was instantly recognized as gifted 
with pre-eminent genius. Since then she has published six 
novels, three volumes of poetry, and a volume of essays 
under the title " Impressions of Theophraslus Such." 

The early philosophical writings of Marian Evans are 
little read, and are nor held in very high admiration. •• With 
their literary workmanship," as one critic has «»aid, "no fault 
can be found; but she was plowing that somewhat barren and 
decidedly unattractive field, where, in Mr. Justin McCarthy's 
words, • German metaphysics endeavors to come to the relief 
— or the confusion — of German Theology.'" 

Nor can much be said in praise of her poetry. The verse 
is correct; the diction high and noble; the thought pure and 
lofty. But, for all that, one feels the lack of that ineffable 
something which kindles correct verse into burning poetry. 
She did not sing a* the birds sing, ami as all true singers do, 
because there was something in her heart which must break 
forth in music. Our feelings are not in the least shucked 
by thinking of her poems in the shape of prose. And yet 
it is said that she herself esteemed her poetry more highly 
than her prose. Perhaps because of the much greater effort it 
cost her. At any rate, this affords another instance of the 
inability of a writer to judge of his own work. Milton pre- 
ferred •• Paradise Regained," to his longer epic. A celebrated 
English painter is said to have considered his poetry, which 
no one else could tolerate, worthier of praise than the beat 
efforts of his pencil. 

When, however, one comes to speak of her work as a 
novelist, criticism is all but silent; admiration is profound 
and universal ; one is left to a consideration of the attributes 
of her high art. It used to be the correct thing to compare 
her with the brilliant Frenchwoman, ( ieorgc Sand. But she 
fills an entirely different world, and, to our mind, is vastly 
superior. She lacks the wonderful gift of improvisation 
which lends such a charm to George Sand as a story-teller. 
But the life which George Eliot depicts is the actual life 
of the world about her, with all its strivings, it*, difficulties, 
its gloom, its <///////, and its hopes too, ami aspirations, while 
George Sand transports us at once to an ideal realm, where 
morals and motives are strangely different from tho^e we 
know and feel in the great life (if the world. 

The genius of George Eliot has often been described as 
masculine. And this is correct enough if one means by this 
epithet that one would not, from reading her works, suspect 
that they came from a woman's hand. To one not knowing 
her sex, we feel sure that nothing in her various works would 
afford sufficient grounds even for a suspicion that their author 
was a woman. But, knowing the fact, one can. no doubt, 
find here ami there traces of the feminine manner. In 
reading George Eliot, one is, first of all. struck with the 
absorption of the author's personality in her work. < >ne is 
invited to a view of life as it actually is. One mav mnke 
his own inferences, may draw his own conclusions. No 
opinions or pet ideas of the author are constancy obtruded 
ujMin him. No theories of this, that, or the other thing are 
flaunted in his face. And yet, for all that, the novel- are 
something more than mere stories. Profound moral problems, 

social questions of far-reaching significance, are everywhere 
discussed, or rather are brought out in the lives and conduct 
of the characters. But the novels are not didactic perform- 
ances, or novels with a purpose, in the ordinary sense of 
these terms. To quote Mr. Justin McCarthy : " The deep 
philosophic thought of George Eliot's best novels quietly 
suffuses and illumines them everywhere. There is no sermon 
here, no lecture there, no solid mass interposing between 
this incident and that, no ponderous moral hung around the 
neck of this or that personage. The reader feels that he is 
under the spell of one who is not merely a great story-teller, 
but who is also a deep thinker." 

Especially noteworthy is the conscientiousness of her 
work. Nowhere did she hurry. She was content with a 
few masterpieces when she might, no doubt, have given us 
many more. If one idea more than any other comes out in 
her works, it is the glory and value of doing some work 
worth doing well. It was upon this principle that she her- 
self always worked. Not how much, but how well, was her 
aim. And so every character, ever)' scene, is elaborated with 
the utmost care. There are no lay-figures in her stories. 
Every character is a person of flesh and blood clearly in- 
dividualized and made distinct from even' other. 

Her power in the analysis of motives is unrivaled. As 
with a scalpel, she dissects with unpitying hand every feeling 
and motive and impulse of the human heart. Their hidden 
grounds and causes she lays bare to our sight. By no author 
is one so forcibly and constantly reminded that moral char- 
acter is composite, that the grounds of human action are 
always complex. Moral problems are never presented in 
naked syllogisms to the human heart. A thousand ifs and 
ands obscure their meaning and weaken their force. 

A recent critic says of her: " Her truest note — indeed, 
her only true note, one may almost say, so conspicuously is 
it her own — is struck in a sentence of her first story, in which 
she says: ' Depend upon it, my dear young lady, you would 
gain unspeakably if you would learn with me to sec some of 
the poetry and the pathos, the tragedy and the comedy, 
lying in the experience of the human soul that looks out 
through dull, gray eyes, and that speaks in a voice of quite 
ordinary tones.' To call 'The Sad Fortunes of the Rev. 
Amos Barton' George Eliot's best and most truly character- 
istic work would be to provoke the derision of the eulogists 
of ' Daniel Deronda ;' but, slight as it is, we believe it could 
be >o called more truthfully than the more celebrated story. 
Its personages are drawn with a firm hand, and the 'pifhos 
in their very insignificance, 1 of which the author speaks, is 
affecting enough. The low-toned picture, with its gray 
lights and deep shadows alternating across a wholly unre- 
markable scene, was followed by others of the same sort in 
'Adam Bede,' 'The Mill on the Floss/ and 'Silas Marner/ 
successively. • Komola,' with all its Florentine mellowness, 
• Felix Holt, the Radical/ and ' Middlemarch' are not 
essentially different. The element of fate pervades them all 
as distinctly as it does the Greek drama." 

The same critic sums up his account of her by placing her 
in the first rank of novelists, with " Fielding, Thackeray, 
Balzac, George Sand, and Turgeneff, whom alone one thinks 
of associating with her." This is certainly not too high 
praise. No one of the present generation of writers is surer 



of immortality than she. Among the undying stars her light 
will shine on and on to all after-times. 

" Her life'f expense 
Hath won for her coeval youth 
With the immaculate prime of Truth." 

With deep sorrow the throngs of English readers turn in 
tearful silence toward her newly-made grave. 

America's Peace Policy.— Our most sanguine expecta- 
tions have been more than satisfied with the results obtained 
by the recent census. Our population is in excess of fifty 
millions, while the evidences of our material prosperity are 
overwhelming in force. Beyond all possibility of dispute, 
America from this time takes her stand as one of the first- 
class Powers of the world, " amongst the Powers/' as the 
Nation pithily says, " no one of which any other Power 
could assail without taxing its own resources to the utter- 
most." In our own proud estimation we. have long held 
this enviable position. But Europeans regarded this notion 
of ours as a harmless vagary of our overheated imagination, 
or of our nervously-sensitive self-consciousness, to which it 
was not worth their while to pay serious attention. The 
remoteness of our situation and our absolute lack of all 
interest, save that of an observant spectator, in European 
politics contributed both to our boastful belief and to the 
foreigner's incredulity and indifference. 

It was the recent war, with the immense results which 
have followed it, which began to open the eyes of Europeans 
to our real position and strength. All their preconceived 
notions about the instability of our institutions when brought 
to a serious test were shown to their confusion to be 
groundless. The brilliant achievements of our citizen sol- 
diers, led oftentimes by officers who a few months before 
knew no more of war than the reading of their leisure hours 
had taught them, the patriotic enthusiasm with which our 
people responded to the call to arms, the cheerful willing- 
ness with which they submitted to the excessive burden of 
taxation and to being drafted for military service, showed 
the European politician and theorist that he had been count- 
ing without his host when he had imagined that the first 
shock of civil war, the first serious crisis, would shatter the 
fabric of our civil institutions and reduce our free and 
hopeful democracy to a chaos of anarchy and despair. An 
impression quite as profound was created by the alacrity 
with which at the termination of the war our armies were 
disbanded, and our soldiers, many of whom had spent four 
of the best years of their lives in the field, hastened back to 
counting-room and shop and farm. The marvelous growth 
of our industry and commerce since the war, the unprece- 
dented rapidity with which we have opened new fields, 
developed new industries, gained control of or entrance into 
new markets, the willing submission to a continuance of 
heavy taxation, the steady advance in our credit, the impos- 
ing celerity with which we set about paying our national 
debt and its wonderful reduction, are a few of the causes 
which have kept the European mind busy these last few 
years in trying to explain and understand the United States. 

In this connection, an article in a recent number of the 
Spectator deserves more than passing notice. After giving 
% glowing account of our material prosperity, and paying a 

splendid tribute to the "superb pride" with which our 
people accepted the weight of taxation, and wondering at 
our " financial triumph" unparalleled " in the history of any 
nation," it proceeds to take us to task for not doing more for 
the world at large. With "the strongest, the freest, the 
most prosperous people within our borders," " no nation in 
bonds," " no struggling people," " no perishing race," looks 
to Ameiica for assistance, or even so much as hopes to find in 
her a champion. " One American shell would liberate the 
Armenians." At any rate, in Mexico and the South Ameri- 
can States we should take it upon us to keep order and 
prevent war. 

Such, in substance, is the Spectators homily. An active, 
intermeddling foreign policy is what it would prescribe for 
us. But this is not our way. We believe in attending to 
our own business and generously allowing other people the 
same privilege. We believe in the powerful though silent 
influence of good example. We believe in the triumph of 
the arts of peace and quietness. And by our example and 
prosperity this go«pel, for which the ages have waited, we are 
preaching with tremendous force to the whole circle of the 
world. The old ideas of knight-errantry, in accordance with 
which some " gentle knight pricked forth" into the world, 

" Yclad in mighty arms and silver shield," 

in search of wrongs to redress, or helpless maidens 

" To save from shame and thrall/' 

however much these may appeal to our imagination and senti- 
ment, find no place in our sober, practical, common-sense 
creed. We believe more is done for the world by doing the 
duty that lies next, by establishing peace and prosperity and 
freedom within our borders, than by neglecting that to run 
off to some far corner of the world to make a theatric display 
of philanthropy. We do not believe for a moment in the 
mission of any nation to attempt to elevate races or # peoples 
by cutting other people's throats. 

We do not believe in standing armies and navies, except 
to do police work, and that is not the highest or noblest kind 
of work, we think. We haven't much faith in missionary 
wars, or wars of deliverance, such as most wars nowadays 
are called. We fear behind them lurks some opium scheme 
or " scientific frontier" humbug. It is all very well for the 
Englishman to " lay that flattering unction to his soul," that 
in the recent invasion of Afghanistan he was waging a "war 
of deliverance" for the poor Afghans from Russian oppres- 
sion. But what does he suppose the Afghan himself thought 
of this fine theory when, his towns in ruins, his fields laid 
waste, his flocks driven off, his house in flames, his brethren 
gibbeted, he fled in terror to his mountain fastnesses? 
Would the great British nation not have done more for the 
world by using the hundred millions of treasure, poured out 
with the blood in that wild Afghan campaign, in ameliora- 
ting the condition of her own people in helpless and unhappy 
Ireland ? When one contemplates Ireland in her wretched 
and forlorn condition, while England is waging " mission- 
ary" wars through the world, one is reminded of the ragged, 
neglected urchin who lacked for clothes and cleanliness, 
because his mother was president of a mission society and 
had to sew for the heathen. 

No; there is a better way of helping mankind forward, of 



bringing " sweetness and light" into the dark and bitter 
corners of the world, than by entering the lands of the 
oppressed with flying banners and needle-guns. We are 
teaching the world that a great nation can live in peace 
and happiness and abundant prosperity without being con- 
stantly upon a war-looting, without standing armies, without 
imposing military chiefs, or military glory. Armenia, in 
her distant mountain glens, will feel the sunshine of our 
example and be encouraged. The people worthy of liberty 
achieves it. Hut is it not known to the Spectator that 
American railway projects and American commercial enter- 
prise and American evangelists have already begun the 
peaceful conquest of Mexico ? Docs it not know that from i 
the success of our institutions the South American republics . 
take heart for new efforts in purifying themselves and 
establishing democratic principles? 

Immeasurably more glorious is it for hosts of intelligent 
men to be devoted to evolving new plans of production, of 
increasing the wealth and comfort of the world, of winning , 
from barbarism new fields for commercial activity and civili- 
zation, than to be leading armies on Don Quixotic campaigns, 

or lounging about camps and cafes, or making new and more 
terrible inventions for the destruction of human life and the 
products of peaceful industry. The lesson that America 
teaches the world just at present — and it is a most needed 
one — is that prosperity waileth upon peace. 

Venus, Jupiter, and Saturn. — The three brightest 
planets now visible in the western sky are Venus, Jupiter, 
and Saturn. These are all in nearly a direct line from the 
setting sun to near the meridian, Venus being the most 
western, then Jupiter and Saturn. 

Venus is remarkably brilliant now. and about the first of 
April will be visible to the naked eye even when the sun 

Venus will pass Jupiter on the 22d of February, five 
dcgiees to the north, at which time these planets will present 
a rarely beautiful sight. And on the first of March it will 
pass Saturn, so that from the middle of February till the middle 
of March the three planet* will possess unusual attractions. 

On the 22i\ of April Jupiter will pass the sun and Saturn, 
an event that will not occur again this century. 


Apples. — Apples arc the most useful fruit we possess, 
and the most wholesome. Eaten raw, or cooked in a 
hundred different ways, they take an important share in 
our domestic economy. Apples may be divided into three 
classes, — dessert, baking, and cider fruit, — the number of 
different varieties in each of these classes being enormous. 
It is much easier to choose a good dessert-apple than to be 
sure of a good cooking-apple ; for very much of the fruit 
sold for baking purposes is only fit for cider. It makes a 
great difference in the success of a recipe whether the apples 
used have a fine flavor when cooked, and whether they 
retain their form or cook into a smooth pulp. For those 
who possess orchards of their own it is best to keep each 
variety distinct, and use fust any that may have been mixed. 
A room with a good draught of air through it, and with 
shelves all round the walls, matle of laths of wood two or 
three inches apart, or of perforated zinc nailed on a frame- 
work of wood, is best for the apples. Do not let them 
touch each other, and if they have air all round them they 
will be in good condition when other fruit is rotten. Of 
course, they must be carefully picked by hand from the tree, 
the bruised ones being used first. Some varieties will keep 
three or four months longer than others, and these should be 
carefully looked after. By looking over the apples once a 
week, and taking away any that show symptoms of decay, 
the winter stock of fruit will amply repay care and attention. 

Mending. — As soon as children have learned to darn on 
canvas perfectly by taking up one -stitch and leaving one, 
and are also equally perfect in crossing their darns by the 
same rules as I gave in a former paper, they ought to be 
taught to make their darns another pattern, by taking up 

one stitch and leaving two, and then another way by taking 
two and leaving two. One square of canvas can contain 
three or four darns, in all different colors. It is a good plan 
to let an elder child teach a younger one; this not only saves 
the mother or governess, but impresses the lesson indelibly 
on the small teacher. It is a lesson also to the child who 
I teaches, inpatience and in gentleness of tone in speaking, — 
two virtues which she no doubt will illustrate with the 
measure wherewith they have been measured to her. When 
the canvas darning is an easy and familiar lesson learned 
perfectly, the children can then be promoted to stocking 
darning ; but it must be a coarse cotton stocking, cut up into 
squares, for a whole stocking or sock is much too difficult at 
first, because the wav to hold it on the left hand is a tire- 
some thing to a child. In all these little matter.?, as we 
grown-up people call them, the teaching of children calls 
for a loving sympathy and a large and divine patience, — the 
patience that daily teaches line upon line, and as patiently 
waits for the results. 

I fear that many mothers expect the results to be far 
greater in proportion than the line-upon-line teaching en- 
titles us to do. It is not so in nature, whether in the animal 
or vegetable kingdom, neither should we expect it in the 
mental growth or deftness or handiness of children. It will 
not be long, however, before a child carefully and daily 
■ taught to darn in the wav 1 have described will be able to 
1 put a neat darn in a " real" sock or stocking, and the greatest 
prize y<>u can give is that they shall have, the honor and 
glory of darning mother's or father's. Then promote them 
to the darning of h«iii>e-linen. The easiest thing to begin 
upon is a rather coarse table-napkin, cut into small squares. 
Let them hem the squares, and then learn, in the same way 


as on the stockings, every alternate thread, but not allowing ■' and spread over every moment of the twenty-four hours ; so 

them to leave loops, only to leave the thread easy top and that she may he said to have * never done/ House, servants, 

bottom. The proper thread to use for bed and table linen ' children, mending, patching, general supervision of domestic 

is flax thread, and at a good trimming and small-ware shop affairs — none of these tasks may be neglected. There is 

the proper varieties in size can be bought. At a draper's < little or no time all day for recreation or for, cultivating the 

only a coarse size is usually sold. In darning, match your , mind ; and the evenings must be devoted to the husband's 

thread with your material. wishes and requirements, and to the inevitable plain sewing. 

Darn all cotton things with cotton, all linen with linen, And all this drugdery is undervalued and ignored, and not 

all woolen with woolen. It not only looks better, but amnl- looked upon in the light of ' work 1 at all. It is only 

gamates with the material, and when washed does not show woman's duty, and no particular credit is to be given her, 

as much as darning a material with a foreign element would, no matter how well she acquits herself. The attitude of 

The same principle applies to the mending of gowns. If men toward us is ungenerous in the extreme." 

you can manage to darn a slit in a merino, cashmere, or We chanced once to be present at an afternoon tea at a 

paramatta gown with its own ravclings, it will scarcely friend's house, when the article in question was under dis- 

show ; but, at the same time, you must not take the ravclings cushion among several ladies, all of whom were on sufficiently 

from the tear you are going to mend, as those ravelings help intimate terms with each other to relate their personal expe- 

to fill up the dam. Never remove the threads that are left ' riences. "Of course," said one, •* these remarks are intended 

in any sort of tear in any sort of material. Before you begin | chiefly for the lower classes, but a good many of ihcm could 

to darn a hole, examine it well, and pull out the edges with ' be profitably applied to ourselves. Now don't we, many of 

your finger and thumb, and see what you have to work upon, us, know what it is to be pottering all day, doing all kinds 

The washing and mangling it has undergone crumples up . of little odd jobs about the house which no one else can do, 

and conceals many little scraps that can be pulled out and and which must be done, though we have not much to show 

used as a foundation to cover the rents. In stockings and . for them, and for our husbands to come in to dinner, and 

socks, holes should always be drawn together before darn- say, 'Why haven't you written that letter? Why didn't you 

ing. This should be done by "lacing" it with very fine . go to such and such a place? Why didn't you do this, or 

cotton, black cottcn for white stockings and white for black , that, or other? What on earth can you have been about all 

stockings, and then you can pick out the threads when your this time ?' And they get dreadfully cross, my dear, too, if 

stocking is darned. In drawing a hole together, be careful one attempts to argue and explain the hundred and one little 

not to draw it out of its natural proportions, but observe , potterings which have frittered away the morning and the 

where the threads naturally lie, and make a lattice-work \ afternoon!" " Very true," answered another; "men have 

across the hole gently. Some holes can be quite drawn ' an idea that all one's ordering and marketing can be got 

together. Filoselle is the best thing for darning black lisle , through in about half an hour, and that all the departments 

thread or fine merino stockings; not the filoselle for em- of the house will arrange themselves naturally without any 

broidery, but large skeins, as four threads arc sufficiently , of our needless fuss, as they call it. They don't see the 

thick, and sometimes two are enough. II. B. • process; they only see the result, when everything is made 

| straight and smooth for them, and so they imagine house- 
Husbands and Housekeeping. — We have tend of keeping is all plain sailing, and cannot understand or 
"Bachelors' Ways, and What they Teach the Housewife," ' sympathize with its difficulties." "No; there is no getting 
but we do not think the subject of " Housekeeping from the i them to understand," said the first speaker. "Not even 
Husband's Point of View" has ever yet been treated. It is, ' personal experience will convince them. When we have 


however, an important one, and one over which we house- , been away from home for a week or two, and have left 

wives are continually pondering and lamenting, whether we ' things to the servants, and found a bad state of affairs both 

express our feelings or not. We say lamenting, because the ! up-stairs and down on our return, our husbands will often 

fact is, most men know nothing whatever about housekeep- have it there is nothing wrong ; it is only our imagination. 

ing, and are apt to take all that is done for them so entirely | Then perhaps another time he will take a fit of interference 

as a matter of course (though they are ready enough to find ■ himself, and discover, just when we don't wish it, that the 

fault if it is not done), that' their wives very naturally get ' cook is wasteful, the housemaid is not fit for her work, and 

disappointed and out of heart at their exertions being so . that the nurse neglects the children ; and he will want them 

scantily recognized and so little appreciated. ' all to be dismissed. When a man does wake up to the 

Not very long ago, Mrs. Oliphant, in a magazine article , sense of household difficulties, it seems to me it is always at 

on the " Grievances of Women," gave vent to her own the wrong moment, and more harm is done than good." 

views with respect to the masculine fashion of regarding j " I have had a great deal of that kind of thing to contend 

housewives and housekeeping with contempt ; and what she j with," chimed in a third lady ; " but I think I have pretty 

said embodies so much of that sense of inju*tice against i well cured my husband of it by trying the experiment of 

which we are always struggling, that we must quote from ' giving up the housekeeping to him entirely for a fortnight, 

her. " Housekeeping," she remarks, " is a science full of a ; without helping him by any suggestions or interfering at all. 

multiplicity of tasks, all more or less indispensable. The ' And the result was that he was glad enough to surrender the 

husband has his hours of work out of doors, and then comes , reins to me again! He would have it that one general order 

home to rest and be waited upon. The wife, at least in the in the moring was enough for the whole establishment, and 

Lower and middle classes, finds her work cut out for her, ] that everything would work properly, and fall into its 



natural place, if only matters were left alone. So he 
followed out his own plan, and found, as you may suppose, 
that the weekly bills ran up to double their usual • amount, 
the servants got dreadfully careless, and all his little pet 
comforts and indulgences were overlooked and neglected. 
I felt very triumphant, 1 can tell you, when at last he was 
obliged to own that I was the best manager, after all!" 

" If they could only all be brought to own that," said the 
lady who had opened the discussion, " what a good thing it 
would be for us ! If our work, which is more important to 
them than they know, were given its full value, and its little 
homely details, which seem so trivial and are really so 
necessary, were recognized as part of the household ma- 
chinery, and not sneered at as * useless fussing,' it would 
give us a much higher interest and pleasure in fulfilling our 
appointed tasks. We must ' potter 1 more or less over them ; 
and we cannot help it. Just look at the time it takes (setting 
aside ordering dinner and marketing) to sort the household 
linen and keep it in order every week, to put down the 
accounts accurately, and to superintend the nursery or the 
school-room, or perhaps both, while keeping a watchful eye 
over the kitchen. Unless we are rich enough to keep a 
large staff of competent servants, we must do all this our- 
selves; and even arranging flowers, tidying a room, and 
writing a menu takes time. Our husbands' wardrobes are 
under our charge, too, and their thousand little wants and 
crotchets must be our constant study. And yet these men 
take it all for granted, and say we have nothing to do, and 
might lie on the sofa all day and read novels if wc liked. 
It would serve them right if we did, I think. But we ' are 
too conscientious.' " .And thereupon there was a laugh, and 
the discussion ended. But it left a permanent impression 
on our mind to the effect that a more full and perfect recog- 
nition of women's work per se — domestic, not professional — 
would be a far greater step towards advancing the social 
position of women in general than the attempt to confer 
upon them masculine privileges, which few really desire, 
and fewer still rightly understand. 

Courtesy. — A person who is courteous to others feels the 
happier for his courtesy; and it crcatei sunshine and happi- 
ness around. We feel drawn involuntary toward a person 
who treats us with courtesy and speaks kindly to us. If we 
think a brother is in error; if wc wish him to receive any 
view of divine truth which we have formed ourselves; if we 
wish him to adopt any line of conduct in preference to the 
one he is now pursuing, a courteous and respectful forbear- 
ing will enable us the better to accomplish our end. We 
cannot lose anything by elegance of manners; we may gain 
a great deal. A man with a disrespectful manner, and with 
rough and hasty words, damages the cause he wishes to 
promote. Study to be respectful. Study to be easy, grace- 
ful, kind, in your general demeanor. You will find in pass- 
ing through a world like this that it will pay well to be 

Health Hints. — Those who desire and appreciate health 
should be as willing to make some effort to secure it as they 
do to obtain the other and good things which increase the 
pleasures of life. Pure water is essentially necessary to good 

health. All wells, cisterns, and springs should be thoroughly 
cleaned in the early spring or in the autumn. The usual 
method of placing a large stone on the top of the cistern is 
injurious to the water, unless an aperture is left in the stone 
and fitted with a wooden cover. The air should not be 
wholly excluded from the cistern, else mouldy conditions 
will predominate, — although perhaps not apparent, — and the 
water will not be wholesome, and in it sometimes there may 
be found various kinds of insects and reptiles. 

Water is the natural drink of all living creatures, and it 
serves several important purposes in the animal economy. 
First, it repairs the loss of the aqueous part of the blood 
caused by evaporation, and the action of the secreting and 
inhaling organs ; secondly, it is a solvent of various elemen- 
tary substances, and therefore assists the stomach in diges- 
tion, though if taken in very large quantities it may have an 
opposite effect, by diluting the gastric juice; thirdly, it is a 
nutritive agent; that is, it assists in the formation of the 
solid parts of the body. 

Kitchen Economy. — Dr. Edward G. I>ove, the present 
Analytical Chemist for the Government, has recently made 
some interesting experiments as to the comparative value of 
baking powders. Dr. Love's tests were made to determine 
what brands are the most economical to use. And as their 
capacity lies in their leavening power, tests were directed 
solely to ascertain the available gas of each powder. Dr. 
Love's report gives the following: 

"The prices at which baking powders are sold to con- 
sumers I find to be usually fifty cents per pound. I have, 
therefore, calculated their relative commercial values accord- 
ing to the volume of gas yielded on a basis of fifty cents cost 
per pound." 




" Royal" (cream tartar powder) 

" Patapsco" (alum powder) 

" Riimford's" (phosphate) fresh 

" Rumford V (phosphate) old 

" Hanford's None Such" 


" Charm" (alum powder i 

" Amazon" (alum powder: 

"Cleveland's" ishort weight ■*{ 



" Price's Cream" 

" Lewis's" (condensed" 

** Andrew's Pearl" 

"Heckcr's Perfect" 

Rulk Powder 

Bulk Aerated Powder 

Notk. — " I regard all alum powders as very unwholesome. Phos- 
phate and tartaric acid powders liberate their gait too freely in process 
ot baking, or under varying dimalii changes suffer deterioration." 

Waste. — There must be, of necessity, a percentage of 
loss in all the material transactions of cvery-day life, whether 
these be carried on in the workshop, the counting-room, the 
kitchen, or the laboratory; but this inevitable waste can h#e 
so far reduced by good management that it amounts IjVout 
little in the course of a year. Observation has convinced us 


| 50 







m g 






111 i» 













Ml. 5 






that the loss in Urge workshops must be considerable, for in 
a great majority of cases we have seen materials lying about 
under foot, — bolts, nuts, washers, kicking around in the mud 
out in the yard, new work exposed to injury from the 
elements, tools misplaced, essential articles or tools neces- 
sary to the perfection of certain parts of the work, at great 
distances from each other, and an infinite number of abuses 
which, although small of themselves, when summed up 
make a grand-total loss at the end of the year. As the thirty- 
second part of an inch is too little on one piece of a steam 
engine, a sixty-fourth on another, and as much on still 
another will result in great derangement of the functions of 
the machine, so infinitesimal waste, continually occurring, 
is the representative of hundreds of dollars for which there 
has been no return. No matter what the nature of the trade 
or manufacture, it is very certain that a material reduction of 
the expenses of every department can be made by careful 
attention to the minor matters, and these remarks ore made 
with the hope that all interested will give them attention. 

Neuralgia as a " Warning." — The great prevalence of 
" neuralgia"— -or what commonly goes by that name- 
should be regarded, the Lancet says, as a warning indica- 
tive of a low condition of health, which must necessarily 
render those who are affected with this painful malady 
especially susceptible to the invasion of diseases of an 
aggressive type. Neuralgia indicates a low or depressed 
state of vitality, and nothing so rapidly exhausts the system 
as pain that prevents sleep and agonizes both body and 
mind. It is, therefore, of the first moment that attacks of 
this affection, incidental to and indicative of a poor and 
weak state, should be promptly placed under treatment, and 
as rapidly as may be controlled. It is worth while to note 
this fact, because, while the spirit of manliness incites the 
" strong-minded" to patient endurance of suffering, it is not 
wise to suffer the distress caused by this malady, as many 
are now suffering it, without seeking relief, forgetful of the 
condition it bespeaks, and the constitutional danger of which 
it is a warning sign. 

" Science in Aid of the Housewife. — Mending of all ! There is nothing equal to crocus powder for cleaning 
kinds of clothing, table, and bed linen, etc., and elegant i and keeping steel. Mix it with pure salad-oil, cover the 

embroidery, is now done on the Wilson Oscillating Shuttle 
Sewing Machine, without an attachment. Wonders will 
never cease in this age of progress." — Scientific American. 

steel over night with it; rub off well next morning, and 
polish with equal parts of dry crocus and powdered brick- 


My Hero. A Love Story. By Mrs. Forrester. Author 
of"Migtion" "Roy and Viola" "Diana Carew ; or, for 
a Woman's Sake; 1 "Fair Women," "Dolores," "Rhono," 
etc. Philadelphia : T. B. Peterson <5r» Bros. 
" My Hero" is a strong and thoroughly captivating love- 
story. It is a delicious life-picture, and is written in Mrs. 
Forrester's best and most charming vein, the style being full 
of vigor and dash. There is a breezy freshness pervading 
the entire novel which is particularly acceptable, and now 
and then come bursts of humor welling forth in the most 
spontaneous fashion. The scene is laid in a charming 
locality in the interior of England, which is described with 
great felicity and picturesqueness, and the glimpses given of 
die little village of Collon are simply fascinating. The 
characters belong to the gentry, and form the high society of 
the delightful rural district they inhabit. All these person- 
ages are well drawn and clearly individualized. Doris 
Keane, the heroine, is sketched with special power and 
fidelity to nature. From the time she first meets her " hero" 
in the Soulhcote Woods until her illusions are rudely shat- 
tered, and she at last finds a husband truly worthy of a pure 
and spotless woman, the picture is complete and enthralling. 
The portrait of Jack, Doris's manly brother, is also drawn 
with a master hand, and Mr. Carruthers, the kind and 
patient lover, is as fine a life-sketch as can be found in any 
novelist's pages. The plot possesses unflagging interest, and 
has the merit of absolute novelty. It is admirably handled 
the first to last, the development displaying an unusual 

l amount of tact and skill. The incidents are all good, and 
i some of them are dramatic and thrilling in a pronounced 
, degree. 

The Twin Cousins. # By Sophie May, Author of " Little 
Frudy Stories," " Dotty Dimple Stories," "Little Prud/s 
Flyaway Stories" etc. Illustrated. Boston : Lee 6r* 

This constitutes one of the delightful series of " Flaxie 
Frizzle Stories," written by the above author for the instruc- 
tion and entertainment of the young folks. Its highly moral 
tone and pleasing character well adapt it to the purpose for 
which it was designed, and no more charming little volume 
could be selected for the youthful reader. Its illustrations 
also are quite artistic as well as attractive. 

The Rhyme of the Border War. A Historical Poem of 
the Kansas- Missouri Guerilla War before and during 
the late Rebellion. By Thomas Brown Peacock, Author 
of "The Vendetta" and other poems. New York: G. 
W. Carleton 6r* Co. 
The principal character of the poem is the famous guerilla 

chieftain, Charles William Quantrell, and the various in- 
; cidents constituting the song of these rhyming verses are 

those which are to be found in the early and tragic history 
! of Kansas. Its author, known as the " Kansas poet," 

through his many previous poetical effusions, has well earned 

the reputation, if quantity is to be considered a measure. As 



to quality, however, there is much that is open to fair 
criticism; yet, notwithstanding such defects, minor in them- 
selves, there is much deserving of favorable commendation. 
We find many fine gems of poetic thought, expressed in 
language both chaste and select. In fine word-painting, 
especially, does lie show a most gratifying skill ; some of 
his poetic imagery possessing much original and striking 
beauty. Of these we have space to notice but a few. The 
introduction conveys in pleasing metre the aims of the 

writer : 

" I build the fair and lofty rhyme. 
Of deed*: heroic sing the praise. 
Though now I touch the breathing lyre, 
To sing past war, if of tho»c days 
Should other harp* than mine aspire, 
It boots not who best wears the bays, 
So that the poem hath expressed 
The music of the poet's breast 
With feeling that to time impart* 
A li^ht of pathos melting hearts, - 
That mystic power of poesy, 
Dcfineless as the Deity. 
I sing as now my whim suits best, 
And leave to man and time the rest; 
I sing of war — red, cruel war, 
The desperate deeds of desperate men — 
Of war, whose echoes yet afar 
Low thunder over hill and plain." 

And a peroration to Kansas, which is exceedingly graphic 
and fine : 

" O Kansas I land of many a change ! 
I^and of promise ! I.and of fairest things I 
Where war and carnage oft did rage, 
Now Peace and Heauty spread their wings. 
Here John Rrown, the fanatic, made 
A name which few this day admire ; 
And Jim I.ane here his powers displayed 
In orations touched with fire. 
Here bold Montgomery led his men 
Like Khoderick Dim through Scotia's glen. 
-:■ * ■/■ * it * * * 

Here journalism first betrayed 
The hope the law would he obeyed. 
Through tin: Herald, Free State, Sfteer's Tribune, 
Which bloomed a flower that perished soon 
Then thy fii^l bard, Rcalf, did essay 
The Muse — his poems seem like day 
Amid that one dark night of time. 
When all was vengeance, hate, and crime." 

liis descriptions of the battles fought by the bushwhackers 
are equally well and forcibly expressed, and none more s«^ 
than the opening lines of Canto VI. : 

,r Lo ! Ph'iibus climbs the hills of niorn I 
And while -n 'bed day is newly born. 
Far o'er the pr.iiries, fair to see, 
Wdd yellow sun- flowers tlniirish free, — 
Fur miles and mile* a golden sua. 
Here countless wild-fh-wcis breast the wind. 
As in Shakspere are most thoughts enshrined 
Whi»:h breathe the beauty of immortal mind. 
One mile, and *caice a mile, apart. 
Are now em .imped two warlike clans ; 
lint soon from their -till rest the) 11 start, 
For each prepares lor battle's dre.ul demands I" 

A* a class, poets themselves play a part in the scenes they 
iKirtray, and the character they assume is usually that of the 
lover. We fear that the poet, in the present instance, has 
failed to conceal his identity sufficiently, unless his desire 

has been to place the incident he so happily relates with 
those that so strongly mark the career of the new State. 
We shall not, however, divulge the modus operandi by 
which we solved this problem from out the labyrinthian 
mazes of his Canto IX. Tom Reworb was certainly as 
brave in love as in war, and he deserves to have his praises 
recorded in verse. In reading "the lover's flight" we 
were very forcibly reminded of how much depended upon a 
saddle-girth, but presumed that Tom, like all gallant lovers, 
made sure of this ! 

Decoration. — A valued exchange presents the following 
sensible thoughts upon decoration as a refining power. We 
take pleasure in calling our readers' attention to them: 

" Criticism has, probably, been no more exercised than in 
endeavoring to formulate the traits of particular artists into 
general principles, which may account for that subtle power 
to please which some works evince, and which, if it can be 
long sustained, is a positive indication of the presence of 
genius, or, at least, of well-defined talent. 

" While the attempt to arrive at such principles can never 
result in any other outcome than a few cardinal rules which 
may be generally applicable, it does tend to show in what 
manner various forms of art differ, and what requisites are, 
under certain conditions, indispensable. The same criteria 
which would be adopted with reference to pictorial art, or 
the art of sculpture, could not, in many instances, be used 
with reference to decorative art. The consideration of true 
drawing, perfect technique, or grand conception which would 
admit of the reception into galleries of paintings morally 
debasing, or of statuary meretriciously suggestive, might be 
of no weight in determining whether the same works, 
although admitted to be of the best ait, should be introduced 
to the companionship of households. In the one case, the 
artistic worth is alone regarded; in the other, that worth is 
also measured by the direct effect which is produced upon 
those with whom it is to come in daily contact. 

•' In some forms of decoration this attention to the per- 
sonal influence is all important. The refining tendency, the 
elevating tone of household surroundings, must be thought 
of as a first principle; and in no case is this more certain 
than when the decoration is the work of women. Embioid- 
ery has a purpose beyond the dexterity which the workman- 
ship manifests and above the part which the colors play, 
though • color be divine.' When James Thomson said that 

" ' The rooms with costly tapestry were hung. 
Where was inwoven many a gentle tale; 
Such as of old the rural poets sung,' 

or tlnil 

" ' Sometimes the penril in cool, airy halls. 

Hade the gay bloom of vernal landscapes rise,* 

he appreciated the power which gentleness and womanliness 
and refined feeling could give to ihe very walls and the 
carpets and the furniture. 

"Without doubt this is the highest aim of decoration, and 
the more intimately the form in which the object appears is 
associated by custom or necessity with the idea of work 
especially suited to women, the more should the power to 
refine and elevate be held in view as one of the foremost 
requisites to distinguish good work." 



A new descriptive catalogue of Houghton, Mifflin & Co.'s [ 
publications has just been issued. It is an octavo of two 
hundred and fifty pages, and describes all of their books and 
periodicals in all external features, size, form, binding; and, 
besides giving the contents, either characterizes these so as 
to aid the reader in understanding their value, or, more fre- 
quently, quotes tbe estimates of competent critical authorities. 
This catalogue contains a quite remarkable array of 
notable names in literature, — Agassiz, Aldrich, Andersen, 
Bacon, the British Poets, Dr. John Brown, Robert Brown- 
ing, Bryant (his translation of Homer), John Burroughs, 
Carlyle, Alice and Phoebe Cary, Dr. E. H. Clarke and 
Junes Freeman Clarke, Joseph Cook, Cooper, Dana, De 
Quincey, Dickens, Emerson, Fields, Fiske, Goethe, Bret 
Harte, Hawthorne, Hillard, Holmes, Howells, Hughes, 
James, Mrs. Jameson, Miss Jewett, Starr King, Miss Larcom, 
Lewes, Longfellow, Lowell, Macaulay, Harriet Martineau, 
Owen Meredith, Montaigne, Parton, Pascal, Nora Perry, 
Miss Phelps, Adelaide Procter, Saxe, Scott, Scudder, Prin- 
cipal Shairp, Stedman, Mrs. Stowe, Bayard Taylor, Tenny- 
son, Mrs. Thaxter, Dr. J. P. Thompson, Thoreau, Ticknor, 
Waring, Warner, Whipple, Mrs. Whitney, Whittier, and 
scores of others hardly less distinguished. 

It has a very full index, containing the names of authors 
and distinctive titles of all works included ; also classified 
lists, embracing architecture, art, biography, education, 
essays, health, history, illustrated books, juvenile books, 
law, medicine, novels, poetry, politics and political economy, 
religion, science, short stories* travel, and description. 
The catalogue contains thirty-two full-page pictures, selected 
from the illustrated books published by Houghton, Mifflin & 
Co., notably from their new edition of Longfellow's Poems. 

This catalogue will be of great value to all public and 
private libraries and to all who buy and read good books. 
It will be sent by Houghton, Mifflin & Co., of Boston, on 
receipt of fifteen cents. 

To Literary Aspirants. — The opening of a literary 
career is such a shifting diorama of disappointments, such a 
dreary, desperate struggle against circumstances, that, could 
intending recruits view it in its completeness, the vision 
would be enough to cool the most ardent. There is among 
young writers a very popular superstition that an article has 
only to be written, sent to an editor, and the author im- 
mediately becomes famous, and, as a necessary consequence 
— wealthy. Those, however, who have put this fairy-like 
arrangement to the test have discovered, I believe, that it 
has no existence in fact. A first article is pretty sure to be 
rejected ; perhaps the second, third, fourth, and maybe more. 
The reason is not far to seek. Editors, like the heads of 
other professions, choose experience. They have never a 
lack of matter to pick from — rather the contrary ; and in the 
interests of the readers of their publications they insert the 
best. Then for the aspirant there is the bitterness of delays. 
An article is accepted; he receives a note from the editor to 
say that it must be cut down in certain portions. He readily 
offers the MS. on any terms. It may afterward be months 
before it appears in print. Victory at last ! he thinks, when 
be views it. ' Hope is increased with the dispatch of every 
other article, and despair at its return. How disappoint- 

ments like these must embitter even the most sanguine of 
temperaments ! 

The interval, too, between the sending of the MS. and the 
receipt of the usual " compliments and thanks' 1 is generally 
utilized by the author in building air-castles on his supposed 
success. He indulges in a pleasant little dream, in which 
he sees the editor poring in rapt admiration over his pro- 
duction, and laying it reverentially aside for the compositor. 
The reality may be the MS. deposited among a score of 
others, all to be returned to their respective owners at some 
future and convenient opportunity. Poverty comes quickly 
to those who make literature a means of livelihood. At 
times the stopping of the postman at the door will be wished 
and watched for with the keen anxiety of an empty stomach. 
This is in the experience of every literary man. The aspirant 
gets sick at heart with his failures; his friends lose their 
faith in the intelligence he was thought to possess ; and he 
finds, with the quaint song, that 

" The crony wha stuck like a burr to your side, 

An' vowed wi' his heart's dearest bluid to befrien* ye, 
A five-guinea note, man, will part ye as wide 
As if oceans and deserts were lyin' between ye." 

The glorious uncertainty of the law in its action is smajl, 
comparatively speaking, to the uncertainty of literature in 
the wrestle for fame. The aspirant sees the successful 
author envied and admired; the dark clouds of heartburn- 
ings and misfortunes are lost in the background. To those, 
however, who suffer under such an acute attack of cacoethes 
scribendi that the above is of no avail, we would, in con- 
sideration both of themselves and their editors, address the 
following observations. 

First, as regards writing an article : for it to read well there 
must be an amount of experience even in the forming of the 
sentences. Editors at times take matter written in a very 
indifferent manner, but it is only where the subject happens 
to be a novel one, or of great general interest. A choice 
of interesting topics and style will only come with prac- 
tice. In commencing to seek the favor of editors, let the 
articles sent be brief; this is important. See that the pro- 
duction is legibly written, well spelled, and grammatical. It 
should also be observed that the journal to which the article 
is forwarded must be one in which a similar style of matter 
is commonly to be met with. Above all, let the article 
stand upon its own merits ; never bother the editor with such 
remarks as that it comes recommended by a friend of that 
personage. To say that it is a first attempt will be super- 
fluous; the honorable gentleman at the head of affairs will 
see that at a glance. Never go from the editor's head to his 
heart and plead poverty. The aspirant is on a level with a 
begging-letter pleader at once; besides, no editor cares to 
deal with a contributor who is " hard up." 
• An editor's judgment may be relied upon, but some will 
accept what others refuse ; so, if an article be returned from 
one office, do not be chary of sending it to another. Keep 
constantly writing, have three or four articles at different 
offices at once — there are publications enough. 

The above are a few practical hints, not given with the 
view of pointing out a road or encouraging the aspirants to 
start upon a most precarious career, but merely that the 
k elementary obstacles may be smoothed. 




A One-sided Feature in our Social Life. — In the 
" Home and Society Department" of one of our magazines 
I saw, not long ago, an artiele written by a lady on " The 
Plague of Formal Calls." Our whole system of making calls, 
formal or informal, seems to me a very one-sided one. The 
only foundation on which the making of calls ought to rest 
is a desire for the companionship of people who are agreeable 
to us, or to whom we can make ourselves either useful or 
agreeable. Of course, if neither party is agreeable to the 
other, usefulness is out of the question. Take a pleasant 
afternoon in September or October, not in a metropolitan 
city, but in one of a few thousand inhabitants, for such cities 
represent the average of American social life far better than 
the larger ones do. Go on to the streets, not where business 
is transacted, but among the attractive residences, and you 
will meet callers at wonderfully frequent intervals. But the 
one-sided part of it is this : These callers seem to be all 
ladies. In fact, you see only two classes of gentlemen making 
calls. You meet the doctor who is calling on the sick, and 
the clergyman who is calling in his wake on the dying, or 
on those who have lost friends, or, to take the most cheerful 
view of the case that is possible, on his parishioners. Both 
are making professional calls. There are newcomers in a 
place. They were at our church last Sunday and made 
rather an agreeable impression. They ought to be called on. 
So the madam calls on the madam. Each of the gentlemen 
remains a stranger to the other; but the requirements of 
etiquette have been complied with, and in due season 
madam's call will be returned. 

Now can it be true that only the ladies need what comes 
of making calls? It may be that ladies find in the society 
of ladies, as they flit from house to house, what gentlemen 
certainly would not find in the society of gentlemen. I am 
very sure that they would never flit in full dress for the 
sake of any social enjoyment so completely one-sided. But 
are not gentlemen confined to business to such an extent 
that making formal calls must be left largely to the ladies ? 
Yes, they are ; there is no denying that. But there might be 
a new departure that would make our American social life 
a good deal pleasanter than it now is, without giving up the 
so-called plague of formal calls, which really is not half so 
bad a custom as some people think it is. Why should not 
most places of business be closed at a seasonable hour, and 
then, after tea, why should not the husband call with his 
wife and make the acquaintance of a lady and her husband 
at the same time? Women are at their best in the presence 
of other women and men. Under the present system of 
making calls the men are nowhere. I protest against having 
them ignored as they have always been under the present, 
one-sided system of making and receiving formal calls, 
where the women keep debt and credit as punctiliously on 
the social ledger as the men keep it on the business ledger 
at the counting-house. It is a monopoly that ought to be 
*"tt down. E. L. B. 

Girls' Allowances. — One hears pretty constantly of the 
necessity of keeping accounts, and that to be a good house- 
keeper a woman should possess at least a rudimentary 
knowledge of the value of money. But, curiously enough, 
no one ever suggests from whence women are to get their 
knowledge, rudimentary or otherwise. In former days — 
and the tradition still lingers — it was believed that complete 
knowledge of cookery and housekeeping would come by 
nature as soon as the ring was fitted on the bride's finger 
(let her maiden life have been as free from any domestic 
care as it is possible to imagine), and many a miserable 
hour that delusion cost the new-made wife. Thanks to 
cooking-classes, etc., it is now in a great measure explained. 
But still we firmly believe that our daughters, brought up in 
girlhood as ignorant of anything concerning money as any 
lilies of the field, will develop, at any rate, a sufficient 
knowledge of its value and management the day they 
undertake the charge of a household. Some may do so, 
but very certainly most do not, and in .consequence go 
through an immense amount of worry and trouble before 
they acquire experience. Now, experience must be bought; 
it can neither be borrowed nor given. So in common fair- 
ness we should try to let our dear ones buy theirs as cheaply 
as may be, and not, to save ourselves trouble and anxiety, 
expose them to the danger of purchasing it, at the last 
moment, at a price that may cost them much actual suffer- 
ing, and even in some cases their domestic happiness. As 
soon as they are able to understand a little what money is, 
children should have an allowance, however tiny, for their 
pocket-money. By means of this they will gradually learn 
the value and use of money. They will learn that if all is 
spent to-day, there will be none to-morrow — a lesson, by the 
way, that many of their elders would do well to learn ! — and 
also the true meaning of charity. Giving children money to 
give to the poor may be a pleasure to them, and a pretty 
way of helping those in want; but this will not teach 
them the meaning even of the form of charily that consists 
in giving. Simply giving our money or our time, when we 
have plenty of both, is hardly real charity, which surely does 
not mean giving what costs us nothing. But if the money 
or the time have cost us some self-denial, in the way of per- 
sonal exertion or economy, then truly the gift blesses both 
giver and receiver. By the way, this may explain what one 
hears of so often from people ; namely, " the ingratitude of 
the lower orders." The rich give of their superfluity, and 
expect in return gratitude. If gratitude were as easy as 
giving what it costs us nothing to spare, the exchange would 
be fair enough; but, unluckily, ingratitude is at least as diffi- 
cult a virtue as self-denial. Both virtues come naturally to 
some people, no doubt; but those people, I fear we must 
confess, are not the rule, but the exception that proves it. 

But to return to our children and their pocket-money. As 
soon as they are old enough for responsibility, the allowance 
should be increased to cover some necessaries, as well as 



their menus plaisirs. Girls at twelve or fourteen should be 
given so much a quarter for pocket-money, and for gloves, 
ties, and the repair of their boots and shoes. Some people 
give the allowance for the chatissure itself; but this- is hardly 
a safe plan. Growing children should never wear either 
tight or short boots and shoes ; but girls don't understand 
what suffering the transgression of this rule will entail in 
after-years, and naturally think that if they choose to econo- 
mize on their boots, at some personal inconvenience, it is 
quite fair. This allowance should always be punctually 
paid, and the recipient be made fully to understand what she 
is to provide with it, and the tidiness and thorough repair of 
such articles should be always insisted on. As they get 
older, girls should always, if possible, have an allowance 
for their dress and little personal expenses. This is not the 
cheapest way of clothing them, for the mother's experience 
always enables her to lay out the money more profitably than 
the girls are able to do, at any rate at first. But to dress 
the girls economically and prettily is not a mother's only 
object. She has to teach them the value of and responsi- 
bility entailed by money, and lets them buy, at a low rate 
and at her cost, the experience they would otherwise purchase 
far more dearly at their own or their husband's expense. If 
properly managed, a girl's allowance will be a capital means 
of teaching these lessons. A girl should be given a fair 
stock of clothes and an account-book, in which she should 
be taught to enter everything she spends or receives. This 
book should be balanced every quarter when the next allow- 
ance is given, and strict accuracy insisted on. Debt should 
never be allowed. She should be taught that if a thing 
cannot be afforded, it must be dispensed with till such time as 
the means of paying for it are in hand. Still, in spite of 
all precautions, some girls will get into trouble. If they do, 
don't scold them, so as to make them hide it next time, 
which would entail worse consequences than even the debt ; 
but point out the fault, pay the debt at once if possible, and 
hold the girl responsible for it,' until by degrees and self- 
denial she has paid it back to you. Don't take a girl's 
allowance away because she is troublesome to manage ; but 
watch her, and oblige her to be careful, encouraging her if 
she really tries her best, but making her feel the inconven- 
ience and trouble caused by extravagance and carelessness. 
While avoiding frightening a girl from confessing her diffi- 
culties by over-severity, don't give way to the opposite 
extreme, and teach her to think lightly of debt. If she gets 
to feel that when she exceeds her allowance she has only 
"to go to papa" or "tell mamma," and coax the required 
deficit frpm them, or at worst submit to a scolding and so get 
it, all the good of an allowance is done away. She gets 
not to mind debt ; for will not her father give her a check 
if she asks for it prettily at the right moment ? or will not 
mother, after half an hour's lecture, pay it out of her own 
pocket, while the culprit gets off scathless ? 

Strictly-kept accounts should be insisted on. Girls cannot 
too early learn method, and this is one very good way of 
teaching it, besides teaching them the value of money. One 
often hears people say, " Oh ! what is the good of those strict 
accounts ? I had so much in my purse yesterday, and now 
there is only so much, and all the accounts in the world 
won't bring it back." Granted ; but, if properly kept, they 

will show how the money went, and that is sometimes a 
difficulty when one depends on one's receipts for the large 
and one's memory for the small items of one's expenditure. 
I heard once of a lady who was considerably annoyed by 
rinding herself short of some money. Reckon it how she 
would, she could not account for the loss. The house was 
searched, servants questioned, and a thoroughly uncomfor- 
table feeling produced in the household, as every one felt 
the money must have gone somewhere. The lady was very 
particular, and, though not keeping regular accounts, prided 
herself on her accuracy and memory, and keeping all her 
receipts and housekeeping-books in splendid order. At last 
her husband insisted on her putting down every small sum 
she could" remember, in spite of her protestations that she 
had done this herself; and little by little, with a good dtfal 
of trouble, she accounted for some of the missing change. 
Eventually the whole sum was accounted for by one of her 
children, at school, writing to thank her for some small 
present she had sent and totally forgotten. Now, if a person 
who is particular as to money matters can produce such 
confusion, imagine the results of carelessness! Until strict 
account is kept, no girl realizes how rapidly money will ex- 
pend itself; and, bad as the effect of this carelessness will 
be as a girl, judge what it will be when she is a woman, 
with a household and its innumerable small wants! 

Among the poor, girls learn very early the value of money, 
as wives have usually a very fair idea of making the most of 
what comes in their way, in spite of the accusation of thrift - 
lessness so often brought against them. (When contrasting 
the comforts of their households with the wages weekly 
earned by their husbands, one must remember that it is only 
a part of their pay which the women get, and in far too 
many cases only a very small part). But girls of the upper 
and middle classes rarely learn anything of money by actual 
experience. Their allowances are not so definitely fixed 
and kept to as to teach them its value even in dress neces- 
saries. If they get into debt, they are allowed to scramble 
on as best they can, or else they are helped out by main 
force, as it were. It is far easier to pay the debt when one 
discovers it, and let the culprit off with a more or less severe 
scolding, than to exercise the constant care and watchfulness 
that will keep the girl from mischief, or at any rate, teach the 
girl to see the consequences of her folly, and help her, by 
self-denial, to atone for it. 

It may seem a hard view to take of what may be called 
the natural carelessness of youth ; but there is an old saying, 
"As the sapling is bent, the tree grows," and if a girl who 
is careless of debt is not taught right as a girl, what can she 
be when she grows up? If she is allowed to think that if she 
cannot " cut her coat to her cloth," as the proverb runs, the 
fault lies with the cloth, not the cutter — can you wonder if, 
as a woman, she is extravagant and careless in money 
matters, fully convinced that this carelessness is at worst an 
amiable weakness, for which she is in nowise to blame, the 
real culprit being fate, which has denied her a sufficient 
fortune for her wants, or her husband, who fails to supply 
her with the necessary liberality. S. B. P. 

Self- Sacrificing Daughters. — We read much of self- 
sacrificing parents, especially mothers. Who has not, in 



the circle of his friends, one or two who are the admira- 
tion of all for their brave, self-sacrificing endeavors to bring 
up and educate fatherless children, and who, with little or 
no means, manage to do it ? But who thinks of the self- 
sacrificing daughters of widowed mothers, who, never 
recovering from the shock of their bereavement and conse- 
quent added cares of a family, long ere old age become 
incompetent for business and the management of their 
households? Scattered through the world, see these brave 
daughters, — for rarely do sons abstain from marriage, that 
they may keep a home for a mother, — assuming all responsi- 
bilities, exerting themselves in schools, in offices as copyists, 
in stores, shops, and any place where an honest living may 
be made, toiling day after day, year after year, that a home 
may be kept for mother or father ; for often fathers, losing 
the mother of their families, become disheartened and 
incompetent to provide alone for the support of children. 

These dear, brave girls, for their parents' sake, turn a deaf 
ear to the prayer of lovers, to the offers' of homes, where 
they could have ease and plenty ; see their mates becoming 
wives and mothers, and surrounding themselves with helpers, 
and reigning as queens amid them ; and as they feel them- 
selves growing old, the bright cheek fading, the beautiful 
hair becoming threaded with silver, perchance with a long- 
drawn sigh ask, " Who will care for me when I am old ? 
Who will love me after mother has gone ?" Taking up their 
burden of life again, who shall blame them if they sadly 
say, " It might have been." 

Yes, dear girls, " it might have been." You might have 
been so happy as to have found in a marriage all that a 
manly, true man could give of tenderness and care, been 
sheltered all your life from its inevitable storms, and you 
might — have married a drunkard, seen children cry for 
bread you could not give them, or lived to see those chil- 
dren depraved criminals. Marriage is a lottery ; but the care 
of an invalid parent, the practicing of filial duties, who ever 
knew them to bring sorrow ? Not but that these duties are 
often trying, often disheartening. Life has so little at its 
brightest to offer, it is not strange that you should at times 
regret that you cannot at least enter for its prizes. But every 
year that goes by only brings you nearer the heaven prom- 
ised to them that " endure." What wonder that when you 
see some old playmate, happy in the midst of her children, 
with a strong arm between her and the world, you should 
strangle a sob, as you say, " No child will ever call me mother; 
no arms to shelter me; I must shelter others." What wonder 
that sometimes you ask Heaven why it is. 

Do not think you alone suffer. Oh', the tears these depend- 
ent ones shed in thinking of all your care and toil for them I 
the hours in the darkness, when they pray to Heaven for 
blessings on you, and even ask — oh, so often ! — that God, 
by taking them, may ease your heavy lot ! As I write, 
there comes before me one of these daughters whose life, 
though sad, was a constant blessing to others. 

Her mother widowed while she was a child. She mar- 
ried, at twenty, one the world thought a prize. Ah, how 
soon to find he was a miserable inebriate! After a few years 
of wretchedness, in which three children were born to them, 
the youngest, a boy of three years, died from the effects of 
low from a drunken father's hand; then her own health 

was undermined by a year's nursing of her husband, who 
at last died from the effect of drink. Three years after 
his death she lost her eldest child, a promising young man, 
with quick consumption ; then, broken-hearted, she returned 
to her aged mother, past work, and, gathering up life's 
broken threads, set herself to the task of keeping a home 
over their heads. Friends helped what they could, and, 
taking work from a clothing-house, she stitched away the 
long years, until (her mother over ninety, herself over sixty, 
her eyesight nearly gone, her health ruined) she was obliged 
to make over the sum she had contrived to lay by for a last 
sickness to a relative, who took them to his home, where 
the mother died in a few weeks, and she followed in less 
than two months. One in life, not long divided in death ! 
" Life's battles over, oh, how sweet their rest !" 

Shall brave deeds be mentioned, heroes applauded by 
adoring crowds, and not these self-sacrificing daughters' 
names be rescued from oblivion? I have spoken of the 
shadows of their lot ; is there no bright side to the picture ? 
What if the pert young miss flaunt her glossy ringlets and 
rosy cheek beside the fading ones of the old maid, as she 
calls her, and wonder how she can live poked up with 
that whining old mother of hers. Does not some dear old 
mother in the church, some saintly pastor, point her out as 
the beautiful young lady who is such a pattern of filial duty? 
They see beauty other than that of cheek or eye or' curl. 
Does not she herself, as the years go by, and she sees one 
and another of her married friends come to grief or ship- 
wreck, seated cosily by her mother in their neat little home, 
send up, silently, a little note of praise and thanksgiving 
that this lot cannot be hers. No husband can disgrace her, 
no child bring her gray hairs in sorrow to the grave. At 
every stage of her journey some blessed compensations are 
vouchsafed her for all the lost dreams of her youth, and 
though she does now and then smother sobs, on the whole 
she is not unhappy or unthankful. No, no; God is good, she 
believes; others have their burdens, this is to be hers, though, 
dear loving heart, she does not always feel it a burden; 
only sometimes when the poor body is tired out, or some 
happier lot is flaunted before her, does a little sigh escape 
her; but she returns to her fealty, faithfully trying to serve 
God in this. Some poet asks : 

" Is there no bright reversion in the sky 
For those who greatly think, or bravely die?" 

Much more may we ask, Are there no blessed satisfactions 
here, as well as a heaven of brightness hereafter, for those 
who bravely live and endure for others' sake ? Yea, verily, 
to the inner vision these self-sacrificing ones ofttimes seem 
to be walking haloed with "a light that never was on land 

or sea. 


Cousin Constance. 

Old Maids. — It is an aphorism oft quoted, that " nothing 
succeeds like success, and that nothing is so wretched as 
failure." How often we verify in life, that whoever succeeds 
draws to himself the homage of scores of his fellows, who 
otherwise would be, if not positively sneering, at least 
unsympathetic and indifferent. While he who fails has the 
misfortune of such failure put down as his own fault; and the 
world at large, like the priest and the Levite of the parable, 
pass by on the other side. 



It is much the same way, we fancy, with old maids. 
Given a happy or desirable marriage as the goal of every 
woman's life, if she fail in attaining it, she is looked upon, 
especially in the eyes of every other woman who is married, 
as having failed in the prime object of existence. She is 
made the butt of playful ridicule on all sides, and, in fact, 
is supposed to be a kind of female Ishmael, with every one's 
hand raised against her, and her hand raised against every 
one. Tradition associates her with cats and parrots, on 
which she is supposed to lavish all that is left of affection in 
her withered heart, while she loathes babies, those curled 
darlings of conjugal love, and doles out but sparingly the 
milk of human kindness that every breast is supposed to 
hold for ties of blood and kindred. 

Scandal and gossip are looked upon as her especial forte. 
It is the study of her existence ; the one interest of her life 
being to discuss the frailties of others, and to gloat over 
them. In it she is eminently proficient and at home. Her 
orthodox horror of all the softer emotions, and the strict 
rectitude oT her judgment thereon, unbiased by any weak- 
ness of feeling, is as proverbial as the angular, unwomanly 
harshness of physique by which comic journals delight 
to depict her. Male cynics, with decided opinions on 
woman's rights, persecute her with a barbarism worthy 
the dark ages, while it is a decidedly unpleasant fact that her 
own sex is the most sarcastic toward her, indulging, with a 
zeal worthy a better cause, in covert sneers or sliy nnuendoes 
at her expense, or in those shafts of ridicule that pierce the 
stoutest armor and unseat the most doughty champion. 

We once came across a curious old book which contained 
many quaint and original conceits. One of them was the 
division of old maids into classes, somewhat after the Lin- 
naean system in botany. With questionable gallantry, it 
made by far its largest class of spinsters of those who were 
so involuntarily, from having thrown away their chances. 
Rich in charms, they coquetted them away, and like the 
butterfly sipping sweets from flower to flower, made no long 
stay at any one; glorying in the heart-burnings and admira- 
tion of Adonises without number, playing ducks and drakes 
with hearts innumerable, until, the heyday of her fascinations 
past, the heartless flirt is left astrand, while her quondam 
lovers, weary of such trifling, have betaken themselves to 
plainer but, perchance, more steady and faithful damsels, 
leaving her an involuntary old maid. She sees, when too 
late, the mistake she has made in forgetting that beauty is 
ephemeral, and that men, " to one thing constant never," 
will sooner or later turn to pastures new, leaving her on the 
shelf, a failure in the matrimonial market. As it were 
ungracious to dwell upon the errors of the past, we propose 
to devote a little attention to the still larger class of volun- 
tary old maids. That there are many women who remain 
unmarried from their own option, we all know. Of the 
sublime class of those who devote themselves to God and 
to poor, suffering humanity, giving to womannood the 
nimbus of the saint and martyr, of whom, as was said 
cf their divine example, "the world is not worthy;" and of 
those who, having once loved and lost, thereafter close the 
door of their hearts on a sacred memory, volumes might be 

Love is a holy and sublime passion. True love, either in 

man or woman, rarely comes more than once in a life-time. 
It is said that what is commonly called first love is the one 
and only affection of our lives. This may or may not be 
true. For ourselves, we rate the love of a man or a woman 
sufficiently matured in the world's sad experiences more 
valuable, deeper, more lasting, than the susceptibility of 
temper, the exuberance of fancy, the pleasing torment of 
those earlier and more romantic years before contact with 
the world has reft the heart of so much of delightful illusion. 
Still, who shall say that a method in this madness is desirable ? 
Was it not rather the very inanity of its blindness that lent 
it it's subtle charm which no clearness of after-vision could 
imitate, — the delicate bloom on the fruit which the first touch 
of rude hands destroyed ? In this go-ahead age, we fear the 
true in love is not so common, after all, and that many men 
and many women marry for marrying's sake alone. A 
certain affection grows upon them ; but it is not the un- 
quenchable, yearning love over which the heart, from its 
inmost workings, has long lingered; and when the loss of 
its object explains the voluntary old maid, how shall we 
enough honor her ? It is a noble nature that gives its all, 
and then silently passes on its solitary way with but the 
cold comfort of the past to light all its after-life. 

Perhaps the pleasantest kind of old maid is she who, in 
all sweet truthfulness and simplicity, has kept the shrine of 
her heart inviolate, seeing the years pass by her and yet no 
sail. She may have met many whom she respected and 
liked as friends, but not the one for whom alone she cared 
to live or die. She has never loved, and has never been 
disappointed; her feelings are never roused by any bitter 
reflections, nor her temper sobered by miscarriage of expec- 
tation ; she mingles in society, sensible, genial, helpful, re- 
gretting nothing in the past, with no secret chamber in her 
heart, no wound to hide, no dear memory to make the 
things of to-day of little importance, but content with what 
is, and satisfied to wait for the future. Another class might 
come under the head of forced old maids : those who have 
lost by death or some other poignant sacrifice the man of 
their choice, with whom lie buried the hopes, affections, 
and anticipations of a blasted life ; or, possibly, those who 
have given their hearts away in utter confidence and good 
faith, such as true love alone knows, only to find that they 
have, after all, been sacrificing to a false god, — that thistles, 
not figs, awaited their outstretched hand. Of the class of 
neecessary old maids, whose ranks our above-quoted old 
author insinuates are filled with those ladies whose defi- 
ciency in outward charm is at times a slight bar to their 
matrimonial prospects, we will only say they are of far too 
small a number to occupy our pen, and knowing, according 
to the terse and homely adage, that " every Jack must 
have its Jill," we are much more inclined to cancel this last 
class most indignantly from the category than, by taking 
up cudgels in their behalf, admit of their existence. 

Hart Ayrault. 

Loud talking and animated discussions arc out of place 
in public places of resort. If every one indulged in such 
habits, the congregation of numbers of persons in one spot 
would be far from an agreeable recreation. Strict reticence of 
speech and conduct should be observed in public at all times. 




Now that the pavements have donned their winter coat, 
the man who is constitutionally tired can sit down whenever 
he wants to, and sometimes when he don't want to. 

It is at this time of the year that the dainty-footed miss, 
whose head comes in sudden contact with an icy sidewalk, 
wishes that she were a Chicago girl. 

The man who leaves home in the morning without kissing 
his wife may feel uncomfortable ail day ; but the man who 
forgets his ice-creepers is much more likely to feel that way, 
and the pain won't be in the region of the heart, either. 

A fashion magazine says that tigers' claws, prettily 
mounted, are the prevailing fashion in cloak-clasps. We 
always gave the girls credit for better sense than that. If 
they are tigresses — angels, we mean — they're foolish, mighty 
foolish, to advertise it by displaying their claws in that 
way. But perhaps these clasps are intended only for married 

No matter how small the ice-crop may be, there is always 
enough to go round among the pavements. That's one con- 
solation, anyhow — for surgeons. 

They had just plighted their troth, and he had sealed the 
bargain with a kiss. 

" Charley," she whispered, as she laid her velvet cheek 
on his shoulder, and a tender smile played about her rosy 
lips, " Charley, don't go yet; I cannot bear to have you 
leave me." 

" Jemima," he exclaimed, rapturously, " dear Jemima, 
I won't go home till morning! And may I — may I come 
to see you every night ?" 

" Well, I hardly know," she thoughtfully replied. " You 
see the gas bills are so awful high, and pa says coal is going 
up; but I guess I can fix it!" And she was mad because 
he left three hours before the cock crowed. 

Bronson Alcott may be a gentleman and a scholar, but 
we defy him or any other sage, past, present, or future, to 
explain why a woman's sympathies always go out to the dog 
—confound it ! — when her husband trips over it, clutches 
madly at vacancy, and fetches up against the arm-chair at 
the other end of the room with a frown on his brow and a 
black and blue crescent on his shin. 

A Philadelphia boy came home from school the other 
day with eyes suggestive of tears. 

•• What's the matter, Tommy ? Did your teacher whip 
you ?" inquired the anxious mother. 

n 'Tain't that/' said the boy, beginning to sob. " Knew 
she was going to w-whip me, and put r- rosin on my hand, 
but the nasty ruler wouldn't break. Boo-hoo 1" 

You want to sell your old ulster, don't you ? Well, 
when the little old man with a nose like a crook-necked 
•squash comes round, name your price, and when he holds 
up his hands in holy horror and asks you " vedder you tink 
he vash a Vanderbilt," and moves toward the door, don't 
give in. Let him go. He'll come back, and if he backs 
out a second time, let him go again. The third time -will 
fetch him, sure. 

It is said that Disraeli received $50,000 from his publish- 
ers for the manuscript of " Endymion." This announcement 
has given birth to several thousand willing-to-be novelists, 
and caused a sudden boom in the waste* basket business. 

If Grant turns his back on the pension fund, it is hardly 
probable that Hayes will follow his example. The man 
who can make his guests drink his health in Apollinaris 
water, and gives a barrel of frozen apples (presented to him 
by a rural admirer) as a Christmas gift to an orphan 
asylum, is not likely to stand off and see a quarter of a 
million pass by without making an effort to secure it. Even 
if he were, Mrs. Hayes would soon bring him up to time. 

Logic— Tommy Dodd's mother baked a large cake the 
other day, and put it out in the yard to cool off. When she 
wanted to take it in it had disappeared, only a few crumbs 
remaining on the plate. 

"Tommy," called out his mother, "who ate that cake?" 

" Give it up," replied Tommy; " didn't the dog do it?" 

" No." 

"Well, I hardly know, then," he said, thoughtfully; "if 
the dog didn't eat it, I guess I did it myself. That's the 
only way I can account for it." 

No Use for Tracts. — It was on South street. A gray- 
headed old man sat on a box in front of a second-hand 
clothing store. He had a seedy air about him, and his coat 
was worn and threadbare. His arms were folded on his 
breast. His head was bowed as if in grief. His bronzed 
and bearded face was touching in its misery. There was a 
dread frown on his brow, and his small gray eyes stared 
moodily into vacancy with an expression of unutterable woe. 
His lips were firmly compressed. Occasionally his head 
would rise and fall with a sad and dreary motion, while his 
white lips moved convulsively as if in prayer. 

What dark thoughts were coursing through his brain? 
Why did he start to his feet, and strike his brow with his 
clenched fist and shade his eyes with his hand as he looked 
down the street ? Was he meditating suicide, and did he 
fear detection ? 

These were the thoughts of a tall, thin, white-chokered 
man who had been watching him for some time, and who 
now stepped up to him, and said, " Be calm, my friend, be 
calm ! Remember there is joy for the sinner that repenteth. 



Here is * tract It asks you if yon want to save your soul. 
Read it." 

The " sinner" turned, shook his fist in the other's face, 
and shouted, " Tarn dose dracks ! Don' you saw dot mans 
down de sthreet Talking? I oxed him only fife dollar 
by dot coat| und soldt 'im for dot, und he half more als 
fcefty in his bocket ! Und you dalk apout dracks ! Holy 

The Kitchen Club.— The Milkman's Bell.— There 
were twenty-five of them. They were in the habit of 
spending their Thursdays in social intercourse, when one of 
their number (an illustrious descendant of a long line of 
kings, who had been transplanted from her native bog by 
cruel fate and a steamship, and was now serving in the 
humble capacity of a cook), Miss Bridget Bally whack, of 
Ballywhack Castle, county of Ballywhack, Ireland, con- 
ceived the idea of forming a club composed of her suffering 
fellow-servants. Accordingly, when her turn came, she 
invited her friends to a "tay party." She welcomed them 
in true Ballywhack style in her mistress's kitchen; and after 
the weekly feast of cold '" mate" and biscuits, and tea sweet- 
ened with stolen sugar, Miss Ballywhack arose and gave 
vent to her feelings. Her idea was to form neither a relig- 
ious organization nor a literary society, but rather a club for 
the mutual protection and entertainment of its members. 
She was not quite prepared, however, to unfold her plans, 
and so the Kitchen Club's aims and purposes will not be 
fired upon an expectant world until it- suits Miss Bally- 
whack's convenience to reveal them. At the conclusion of 
the address, Miss Sally Grimshaw, the housemaid at No. 10, 
asked the indulgence of her friends while she read "a pome 
took from life," which she " writ," she said, after having 
" suffered terrible." It is highly dramatic. This is the 





There it goes now — 
Drat the old thing f 

The milkman's bell 
Is beginnin' to ring. 

"Run for the pitcher t 
Open the door!" 
How many times 
Have 1 heerd that afore ! 

I slams the back-door 
Jest to spite missus ; 

There goes the baker 
A-throwin' me kisses I 

No mud on the steps ; 

No dirt in the yard ; 
And the Lord be praised ! 

For scrubbin' is hard. 

The people is sleepin' — 
Every poor sinner — 

Jest like my master 
After his dinner. 

No folks out o' bed ; 

The city is snorin' ; 
An' there goes the butcher 

A-shoutin' an' roaxin'. 

The streets Is all quiet — 

" Oh, put a quart in !"— 
Jest like the parlor 

When that young man's a-courtin*. 

" Gimme the change now 1" 
How the steps glisten ! 
Like young miss's eyes 
. When her beau she's a-kissin' . 


My pitcher is filled ; 

The milk's white and nice, 
Jest like the powder 

Miss puts on her face. 

But I must stop musin', 

Though musin' is nice ; 
And before I says "beans" 

I slips on the ice I 


Lord ! Where am I ! 
I must be in heaven : 

1 sees the stars twinklin', — 
But the clock's strikin' seven t 

Where arc the cherrys 1 
In their white garmints? 
" Sally, come in here, 

An' feed the young varmints!" 

Law sakes ! that's no sperrit ! 

That's missus a-callin' ; 
An* those plaguy young brats 

For breakfast is bawlin'. 

I mus' be on earth yet, 

Along with poor sinners. 
Or the devil has took me 

To cook him his dinners. 

" Come into your work ! 

No more of your tricks !" 
Ain't that my missus? 
And ain't these the bricks? 

I must 'a slipped down. 

An' I'm almost froze ; 
My ears is as red 

As my master's nose ! 

Where is the pitcher? 

I'm all in a flutter. 
Lord ! won't I catch it? 

It's broke in the gutter ! 

" An' I did catch it," said Sally, folding up her manu- 
script ; " 's if it wasn't enuflf to fall down an' almos' break 
my neck ; an* I give her a week's warnin', so I did, for I 
won't put up with no sass from nobody, I won't ; but she 
med it all right agin, beggin' me to stay an' givin' me a 
new dress; so I give in, an' she's been's sweet as pie ever 

Sally's "spunk" was heartily applauded, and a general 
discussion ensued as to the merits of the milkman. 

Sarah Bilkins said that she hated the milkman because he 
always pounded on the front gate before she was up, and 
tramped all over the steps in muddy weather. 

Mary Blobbs thought that milkmen were only made to 
worry servant-girls. They roared like fog-horns, hammered 
on the gate " like mad," and always gave short measure. 

Eliza Barkis said that she once knew a milkman who 

* Cherubs. 



used to tell a wonderful ghost-story every Monday morning, 
and after he had gone she was always two tickets short. 

Katherine Malone said that she knew only one " daycint" 
milkman, and he was her first cousin. 

After some discussion, Miss Bridget Ballywhack proposed 
a vote of thanks to Sally Grimshaw for her " illegant pome/' 
which was carried, and it was decided that it was the sense 
of the meeting that the milkman should be abolished. 

There is no butter, howsoever tended, 

But has its lock of hair ; 
There is no hash, how well soe'er defended, 

But one brass stud is there. 

She Ought to give Them a Monument.— An exchange 
contains an account of a recent encounter between Queen 
Victoria and a live newspaper reporter. While she was 
lunching out-doors with the Princess Beatrice and a few 
attendants, she was surrounded by eight reporters, who 
planted themselves near the table, and kept stating at her 
in spite of a hint to leave from the princess, and would not 
go until one of the attendants threatened to kick them 
out. Now, that's nothing. That's higher grade journalism. 
Those reporters probably wanted to find out if the queen 
ate with her knife and wiped her mouth with her sleeve, or 
perhaps they were waiting to be invited. Here in America 
they wouldn't have waited. A Herald reporter would have 
walked right up to the queen, winked at the princess, raised 
his hat, and said : " Beg pardon, Vic. Sorry to interrupt 
you, but it can't be helped. I represent the Herald, you 
know, and I want to get your views on the Irish agitation 
question. Spit 'em right out ! Perhaps you'd better finish 
eating first. I just had my dinner, but I guess I'll pitch in 
to keep you company. Ob, no thanks! We newspaper 
men, you know, often put ourselves out to accommodate 
people. Waiter, one beer! Can I help you to the cheese, 
Vic ?" And that ungodly reporter would have stowed away 
enough food to start a free-lunch counter, and pumped the 
queen drier than a salt mackerel. Clearly, Victoria ought 
to give those English reporters a monument. 

There is no orchard, howsoever tended, 

But has a tree stripped bare ; 
There is no sugar-barrel, howe'er defended, 

But one small boy is there. 

Ohio. — There is a period in the life of every man when 
it appears to be all up with him. His money is gone. His 
good luck has deserted him. His friends have given him 
the cold shoulder, and his girl has gone back on him and 
plighted her troth with a bald-headed man in the soap-boil- 
ing business. Then he locks himself up in his room, with a 
bottle of laudanum in one hand and a seven-shooter in the 
other, and tosses up for first choice. This is all wrong. He 
ought to present that revolver to an Irish landlord, give the 
laudanum to some fellow's mother-in-law, and say it's Hop 
Bitters, and move into Ohio. 

Let him move into Ohio, and if he has any earthly use for 
poison or lead inside of six months, we'll eat our helmet. 
We once knew a man who kept a dairy. He did a thriving 

business, sold oceans and oceans of milk, and made lots of 
money. He awoke one morning, and found himself not 
famous, but water-logged. His pump had run dry! He 
was in despair. He sent for a plumber and well-digger, 
and had a well dug. But there was no water. He spent 
his last cent in boring for water, but it was of no use ; and 
when ruin stared him in the face a friend advised him to 
move into Ohio. He did so. In three weeks he became 
acquainted with the governor's private secretary. Through 
him he got to know the governor. The governor procured 
for him contracts for supplying milk to all the State institu- 
tions. When election time came he " fixed" things in his 
ward, victory perched on his banner, and then he waited on 
the governor and presented his claim. In a month he got a 
government clerkship. Then he cast his eye on a fat sine- 
cure in the Treasury Department, held by a Pennsylvania 
man. He expressed a longing for that office to a friend of 
the President. Presto, change! and it was done. The 
Pennsylvania man was removed for " incompatibility," and 
the Ohio man was put in his place. And now they talk of 
creating a new cabinet office for the sole benefit of that 
Buckeye granger. 

Whenever you feel like giving up, put away your evil 
thoughts and move into Ohio. You'll never regret it. We 
would move there ourselves, only — yes — ah — that is to say — 
we're a Democrat, that's all, — a red-hot-never-say-die-come- 
up- to- the- scratch- evcry-time- and- get- knocked -down- again 
Democrat ! Confound the luck ! 


There is no concert, howsoe'er defended, 

But one dead-head is there ; 
There is no village, howsoever tended, 

But has its own church fair. 

A Lesson in English. — What queer blunders these 
foreigners make ! A German woman living on Tenth street 
had a severe attack of cramps the other day, and a doctor 
was called in. He gave her some ginger to relieve the 
pain. Next day he called again, and said : 

" Well, Mrs. Bummenschlager, how do you feel to-day ?" 

" Fust-straighdt, doctor," was the reply; "shoost so goot 
als never vas !" 

" Do you feel any pain ?" he asked. 

"Veil, I'fe god a leedle pain in my sthummick, but it 
don't hurd me!" 

The grin on that doctor's face sprouted into a guffaw 
when the door closed behind him, and burst all the buttons 
off his coat by the time he reached the street. 

Keeping the Secret. — There is a man living on Twelfth 
street named McSorley. McSorlcy has a wife. He is 
always making an ass of himself. Some say he made an 
ass of himself when he married her. Her birthday falls on 
the 1st of March, and, wishing to surprise her, McSorley 
bought a handsome ring for her. I^ast night he said to her : 

" My dear, did Jane tell you that I intended to give you 
a ring for a birthday present?" 

" Why, no !" she answered, in surprise. 

** It's all right, then," said McSorley ; " somebody said she 
told you, and I.didn't want you to know till the time came. 
If Jane had given it away, I would never forgive her." 

Potter's American Monthly. 

MARCH, 1881. 


By G. S. S. Richards. 

Of all the Stalin 11I the I' Virginia enjoy* 
perhaps the greatest natural advantage* of posi- 
tion, climate, fertility, picturesque beauty, and 
mineral resources. It has mountains crowned 
with noble forest-*, wide and rich valleys feeding 
numerous flocks and herds and noted for the 
depth and range of their unexhausted, if not in- 
exhaustible soil, and wide plains susceptible of 
Vol. XVI.— 13 

,'hese are watered and 
. fed by innumerable 
The hills on one side of 
,dge that traverses the .State 
mthwest abound in iron of 
id the great plateau on the 
range of mountain country 
a great thickness of excellent coal, ren- 
dered available by numerous deep and narrow 
gorges that intcrsci t the plateau, and allow the 
water to run olf, 

The Appalachian Miumtaiii- .tnd the outlying 
parallel mountain tract to the east, called the 
Blue Ridge, rross Virginia, and form the natural 
boundary between the old State and that portion 
recently separated, and which constitutes the pres- 
ent Stale of West Virginia. The chain extends 



from Canada almost to the Gulf of Mexico, and 
affects in the most marked manner the whole 
physical geography of North America. There was 
a time, geologically not very distant, when the 
ocean occupied the vast valley of the Mississippi, 
reaching almost to the North Polar Sea; when, 
through this ocean, instead of across the Atlantic, 
the Gulf stream made its way; when the west 
coast of Europe was covered by glaciers, and 
when the reindeer was one of the most common 
quadrupeds of southern France and the vine-clad 
valleys of the Garonne and its tributaries. The 
Appalachian chain, not so lofty perhaps at that 
time, formed the backbone of a smaller America ; 
but all the general features of the country existed 
then as they do now, and while the gently-sloping 
and low-lying plains on the eastern side were rich 
prairie-land, feeding countless herds of buffalo and 
deer, the higher valleys and plains of the West 
were less accessible, and were intersected by deep 
ravines, resembling on a smaller scale the cele- 
brated caftons of the Colorado. The gradual 
rising of the whole continent has now converted 
the ocean floor into a vast fertile valley ; but the 
cafions still exist, and penetrate far within the 
mountain range, forming at present a means of 
communication from Kast to West, and connect- 
ing the Atlantic with the great West. 

The valleys of Virginia and the land adjacent 
are destined to play a great part in the future 
history of America. Where there are great stores 
of coal and iron near together and accessible, it is 
impossible that there should not be manufactures, 
and the great centres of manufacture cannot be 
without great political importance. 

There is everything to induce immigration, and 
especially that of mechanics, to occupy this dis- 
trict, although at present the population is still 
somewhat limited. The white inhabitants a few 
years ago were decidedly the least energetic and 
the worst provided for of all the people in the 
State, and even now there is still a good deal of 
poverty, but, as the property changes hands, 
the quality of the owners improves. But this is 
most applicable, to the population west of the Blue 
Ridge. In the Valley of Virginia, and other parts 
of the Old Dominion, there is and always has been 
a more active and prosperous people. Slavery as 
an institution had its redeeming features in this 
State, but its abolition will ultimately prove a 
great and Lasting benefit. It will raise the char- 

acter of the white laboring classes, and remove 
from them the stigma of poverty, bitterly felt 
by the poorer white families when all the land 
belonged to a few large holders, who, however, 
were little the better for their lands and the slaves 
that belonged to them. The war has left little 
bitterness behind, and another generation will 
obliterate all traces of it. It only needs that the 
sections should thoroughly understand each other 
to bring about that entire restoration of mutual 
confidences which shall aid in the development 
and improvement of the country* s vast resources. 
That an active prejudice exists in the Northern 
States against the South and its people is still 
asserted, but it is simply an assumed prejudice, 
based upon political grounds. That this prejudice 
is mighty in its influence for evil on the nation, 
and that by it and through it the conditions of 
the country are largely disquieted, is, alas ! only 
too evident. Much of it is fomented and kept 
alive for ends ulterior to the common weal, and 
the real interests of the nation are kept out of 
sight in keeping it alive. Much, too, if not all of 
it, is due mainly to wrong information concerning 
the facts existing in a large portion of the South. 

We are pleased to note, however, that during 
the past few years this prejudice has been steadily 
growing less and less with the influx of Northern 
men and Northern enterprise. Fair-minded men, 
men of enlarged and unprejudiced views, have 
visited all parts of the South, and studied closely 
its social and commercial interests, and in all cases 
return highly impressed with the courteous treat- 
ment and hearty welcome received at the hands of 
its people. And why should it be otherwise? 
The South very well comprehends its needs, and 
readily understands that it is only through Northern 
capital and Northern enterprise that it can expect 
to develop its vast and unlimited resources. Know- 
ing this, it is to its interest to welcome with cour- 
teous hospitality the elements which shall aid in its 
true development, either by settlement or the 
investment of capital, or indirectly through the 
removal of that prejudice which heretofore has 
proved a bar to its advancement. 

Personally, we have never felt prejudiced against 
the South, because we deemed the aristocracy of 
race, founded upon its peculiar institutions, as 
the result of a cause entirely beyond its control. 
Inherited by its people, it could only be divested 
by some violent disruption or a voluntary aban- 



donment. The latter process was as a matter 
of course impracticable. The former, on the con- 
trary, while it accomplished the end, was never- 
theless the forerunner of a new and strange con- 
dition of society and life, which, although attended 
for a little time by material disadvantage and 
loss, will ultimately redound to its great social 
and commercial prosperity. The South of the 
future, imbued with a new spirit and its energies 
vitalized by the thrift and energy of the great 
North and West, will be as far in advance of the 

hence must crave the reader's pardon for the 
digression. Our object is to give a brief account 
of a second trip " through the Old Dominion," of 
what we saw, and our impressions of the country 
as we passed through. We have said our second 
trip, because we had gone through it once before — 
after a fashion. But then it took us so long to get 
through it, and the route or routes were so multifa- 
rious and devious that ten volumes of the Monthly 
would hardly suffice to record all the " nps" and 
"downs" we experienced in our efforts to get 

South of the past as America to-day is in advance 
of the early colonies. Even to-day, with its brief 
experience of home rule, the materia! progress 
made by the South is everywhere visible. And in 
no respect is this more apparent than in (he matter 
of its railroads. Already long lines of well-built 
and fully -equipped roads are in operation through- 
out its length and breadth, intersecting the States 
and connecting the many important cities from 
the Atlantic to the Gulf and from the seaboard to 
the great commercial centres on the Mississippi. 
The traffic, daily increasing, promises to invite 
additional capital and investment in new roads 
for such sections as are yet unprovided for. and 
where products, mineral as well as agricultural, 
only await development. 

But we did not design going "through the 
South" when we commenced our article, and 


through ! And besides, we had such excellent 
transportation furnished us on our second journey, 
and were enabled to appreciate the glories of the 
country sw much better than in the first instance, 
that we prefer relating the experiences of the last 

The reader will no doubt surmise that we visited 
the national capital, as most travelers of the 
present day are accustomed to do, before entering 
upon our journey through the Old Dominion. To 
admirers of our beautiful capital, with all its 
points of interest and attractions, a visit at any 
time proves entertaining and instructive. It is 
the gate to the Valley of Virginia, and lies 
directly on the line of the great through-route to 
the South and the Southwest. Furthermore, the 
many great attractions and points of interest in 
and about Washington are of such importance to 


every one of the grand sovereigns of this nation, 
that we, as one of them, could hardly think of 
going through without making a stop. Then we 
would not think of giving our worthy member of 
the lower House the go-by. cither, and besides, 
with the great in teres I we feel in having the wheels 
of our government run smoothly, it becomes our 
duty, as one of the sovereigns, to call upon our 
chief servant at the White House, to see that he is 
attending to bis duties as he ought to. Business 
before pleasure, you know ! This attended to, if 
one desires to see some real downright fun of an 
unalloyed character, he should go to the opposite 
end of Pennsylvania Avenue. Not feeling inclined 
in that direction, we devoted our spare time to 
the moving panorama that greeted our vision from 
the magnificent avenue before us. 

The time for our departure arriving, we bid adieu 
to the Willard. and hasten to the depot. It is a 
matter of only a few brief moments, and we find 
ourselves en route for Alexandria. Over the Long 
Bridge, with its beautiful views of the distant Poto- 
mac on either side, whose shores possess so much 

I of historic interest to every American. Before us, 
standing upon a prominent elevation, we behold 
what was once a most noted mansion in the days 
before the late war. but which now shows plainly 
the ruin and destruction so fearfully visited upon it. 
The eminence is Arlington Heights, and the man- 
sion is that of the late George Washington Parke 
Custis, the adoptetl son of Washington, and heir 
to many of the personal effects of the beloved 
patriot. It is best known as the Arlington House, 

, and was built of bricks and stuccoed. With its 

j centre and its grand portico of eight massive 
columns, sixty feet in front and twenty-five in 
depth, and two wings, it presents toward the 
river and National Capitol a front of one hundred 
and forty feet. It is about three hundred feet 
above the Potomac. In its rear and on each flank 
was a grand old wood stretching far back before 
the scythe of civil war mowed down the forests of 
Virginia; and from its front, sloping toward the 
river, was a grassy park of two hundred acres, 
dotted with groves of chestnut and oak, and 

. clumps of evergreen -trees. Through the forest, 



on its right, was a winding avenue of approach 
up to the mansion from the highway. Between 
the lawn and the river lay richly-cultivated fields 
bearing tuns of vegetables for the Washington 
City market every year. From its portico may be 
seen all of the public buildings in the capital, and 
nearly every private one. with a portion of George- 
town on the left, and the navy yard and the fertile 
hills and valleys of Maryland on the right, away 
southward to Fort Washington. 

Very little of social interest attracts our further 
attention before reaching Alexandria. si\ miles 
below Washingtim. and «e are only strikingly 
reminded of our first journey to that city, made 
under very differt-nt and far less pleasant cin urn- 

Alexandria is situated on the Virginia side of 
the Potomac, and has still that antiquated though 
aristocratic look with which it impressed us upon 
our first visit. There are many signs of improve- 
ment visible, however, we are pleased to note, 
showing pretty conclusively that a new and enter- 
prising spirit is finding its way. slowly but surely, 
into its limits. The Virginia Midland and the 
Washington and Alexandria railways, with the 
Alexandria turnpike, supply ample communication 
with Washington C'ilv. and the I'otomac line of 
steamers with Norfolk, Baltimore, Philadelphia. 
New York, and Boston: the Norfolk steamers 
making connection with the Allan line to Liver- 
pool f/ii Halifax. Nova Scotia, and U i ice ifs town, 

stances. Upon that occasion we went afoot, 
one of the hottest days of the hottest 
months we have ever experienced. They called 
it marching in those days. 



Ireland. The latter steamers also connect with the : 
Norfolk railways, which in turn connect directly 
with the Virginia Midland, bringing freight and 
immigrants to all points along their line to this city. 
In this respect the location of Alexandria as 
an inland port of entry, with its attendant river, 
canal, and railway systems, offers most unusual 
facilities. It has besides, for a city of its di- 
mensions and population, much that should re- ' 
commend it to the consideration of those seek- 
ing healthy, cheap, and desirable city homes. It 

has a population of about sixteen thousand, is 
lighted by gas, abundantly supplied with water, 
and furnished with the best of schools and 
churches, and one of the finest and Itcst equipped 
market-houses in the whole Souih. A new and 
beautiful commercial exchange building, a com- 
modiously arranged and elegant government cus- 
tom-house and post-office are prominent features 
that strike our attention as innovations in this 
old and time-honored city. Of its various indus- 
tries and business institutions much might be said 
in detail. It has no less than five hanks and 
banking-houses, two national, one savings, and 
two private; one ship-yard, only worked to a 
limited extent, however ; two machine-shops and 

iron foundries; one spoke factory; two soap fac- 
tories ; a plaster mill ; steam bakery ; broom 
factory ; three cigar factories ; two steam Hour- 
mills, one with a capacity to manufacture eight 
hundred barrels of flour a day ; two sash facto- 
ries and planing mills; three coach factories; 
two steam sumac -mills ; two steam breweries ; 
three furniture manufactories, doing a large and 
lucrative trade ; one steam cotton factory, em- 
ploying one hundred and twenty-five hands ; the 
largest tannery in the State; one pottery; the 
most extensive fish 
packeries in the South ; 
a number of shipping 
and commission houses 
that do a large business 
with the interior, and 
a few that import to a 
considerable extent 
salt, plaster, and other 
articles. In addition 
to these, there are 
other branches of busi- 
ness industries equally- 
worthy of notice, and 
all inviting and admit- 
ting of further enlarge- 

The town is old and 
historical, and proud 
Iwcause of lx>th. A 
half mile, perhaps, 
back from the wharf, 
there is a very un- 
'• pretentious Episcopal 

church, upward of a 
hundred and twenty years old. The building is 
very old-fashioned, of brick, with little eight-by- 
tcn ]utnes of glass in the windows, and galleries on 
three of its sides, and is kept in almost precisely 
the same condition in which it was in Revolu- 
tionary times. Gas has been introduced, a furnace, 
and the wood-work has lwen painted. Otherwise 
it remains unchanged. 

The interest attaching to this edifice grows out 
of the fart that within its walls are the family pews 
of the families of General Washington and the late 
General Robert E. Lee. In memory of these 
distinguished men. tablets have been placed in the 
wall and suitably inscribed in each case. 

The early associations that have their roots 


among the graves of almost a century and a ] ourselves in connection with the scenes through 
quarter ago cluster as thickly about this church as ! which the town had passed since the close of the 
the ivy that conceals its walls, seeming in its all- late civil war. As these incidents would be little 
embracing tenderness with youth and vigor to likely to interest our readers from their purely 
sustain their tottering age ; and their voicelessness local character, we will not take space to recount 
is mightier than the noise of hammer and saw and them here. 

the click of the trowel ; is a patient protest against , The great point of interest and attraction, how- 
the sacrilegious solicitations of modern architec- ever, the one that draws public attention more gen- 
ture. The church-yard surrounds the church, but crally to this town than all else, is the home of the 

the stones are most of them very old and moss- I 
covered ; many of them, perhaps the greater part, ' 
dating back to the last century. There were 
but few names that have been handed down by 
history. i 

Another point of interest to the visitor is the 
building where General Braddock had his head- ■ 
quarters previous to his fatal expedition. This has ! 
been incorporated with a new addition, and the 
whole constitutes the present "Mansion House," i 
a first-class hostlery, under the management of ' 
Mr. Green, a courteous and gentlemanly host. ' 
From him we learned many facts of interest to . 

" Father of his Country." Mount Vernon is nine 
miles below this place, and, we dare say, there 
are few places with which our readers are more 
familiar. Few travelers this way would for a 
moment think of passing on without a pilgrim- 
age to this venerable shrine of a nation's adora- 

As we wandered about the place, pausing often- 
times to muse upon the many objects of interest 
that met our gaze, or to catch some new beauty of 
the landscape, we recalled the words of Com- 
mander Gibson, given to the world in his recent 
volume of verse : , 



" And thi», then, is Mount Vernon I and I view. 
Beyond the wide reach of Potomac'* flood, 
Maryland and Virginia, in the blue 

Of distance. Wending in sweet sisterhood, 
As close, as sisterly, as lovely, should 

Vour real Union be, his children States. 
Oh ! by jour freedom, in him un withstood, 

From the Orient sea to sunset's golden gates, 

Clasp every link of love which here be consecrates!" 

The Mount Vernon mansion is situated on a 

swelling height, and commands a fine view of the 

Potomac. The estate is under the control of the 

Ladies' Mount Vernon Association, which has care- 
fully preserved it, and to add to its interest has 
from time to time exercised its influence and efforts 
to secure additional mementos of the honored and 
much resjieeted man who once graced its halls with 
his commanding presence. Almost everything one 
sees bears the impress iinclTaccd of the yesterday 
it recalls, but not of yesterday in decay; for the 
efforts of this association have been zealously 
directed at all times to the restoration and pre- 
servation of the estate. Hcyond these objects it 
is probable the spirit of improvement will never 
venture, for this is one of the very few s|K»ts in 
America that should be sacredly kept free from 
innovation, as a bequest in trust to the centuries. 

Let it remain as the Mecca of the American patriot. 
However high party spirit may run, 
" Yet, Washington, we worship at thy tumb. 

Cold though the marble, cold thine ashes here. 
In all our sad perplexity and gloom, 

May patriot hearts, from pnssion freed and fear, 
Grow noble in the calm of memories they revere." 

After devoting several days very profitably in 
the examination of points of special interest to 
ourselves in and around Alexandria, we proceeded 
on our journey through the Old Dominion. And 
just here it behooves 
us to say that we found 
at this stage an old . 
landmark gone, one, 
too, by the way, we 
well remember. This 
was the once familiar 
" Orange and Alexan- 
dria," a railroad run 
by two companies, 
" Uncle Sam" at the 
one end, and the "Con- 
federates" at the other. 
Instead of the old-time 
de; Hit - ln d insignifi- 
cant rolling-stock, we 
have now the hand- 
some offices, the depot 
building, and the ex- 
tensive machine-shops, 
locomotive and car- 
works of the Virginia 
Midland Railroad, 
which has absorbed 
the old line, and now 
tensive lines of railway 
e-shops and locomotive 
works are of a capacity fully adequate to supply the 
equipments of the road, and these compare very 
favorably with any of the leading roads in the 
United States. 

The course which this road follows is one which 
traverses the entire State in such a central position 
that by it equal benefits are conferred upon and 
received from all the railway and water lines which 
pass through the State from east to west. It strikes 
the Piedmont district, which it follows through Us 
entire length until it reaches Danville. This dis- 
trict is more elevated as well as more varied in 
its surface than the tide-water district, which lies 

operates one of tin 
in the State. The 


between it and the Atlantic, and possesses a com- , We would also observe that the production of 
bination of advantages which makes it compare the mines throughout the Piedmont district, its 

more favorably with the great and fertile valley 
lying to the west. 

Recognizing the fact that railroads must to a 
great extent depend upon their local freight and 
travel, the Virginia Midland, we find, uses every 
exertion to facilitate immigration to and settlement 
in this region of Virginia. With this in view, the 

fields, gardens, waters, and forests, can be made a 
fruitful of great results as the most favored of 
lands. The recent discoveries along almost the 
entire line of this road, of specular, hematite, and 
magnetic iron ore deposits, asbestos, kaolin, mar- 
ble, porphyry, gold, jasper, fine clay, plumbago, 
slate, argentiferous galena, manganese, fire-proof 

company lias started on a new career of assisting 
in the settlement of cities, towns, and rural dis- 
tricts through the region traversed by the road. 
Under authority of the legislature of the State 
it has purchased large quantities of land through- 
out this district and along the line of the road, 
which it proposes reselling on long credit to 
actual settlers. This we understand is the first 
effort of the kind ever made by any railroad cor- 
poration in the State, and should commend itself 
to the community generally as the most efficient 
mode yet devised of accomplishing the settlement 
of surplus lands. 

stone, mineral substances for paints, copper, blue, 
red, and gray building-stone, etc., promise a most 
prolific source of revenue with their development, 
and in this work there is need only of the strong 
arm and the energetic will of industrious and 
thrifty settlers. 

To the traveler seeking a route which will pre- 
sent him with a continuity of points of interest, 
and at the same time an opportunity of passing 
through a delightful region of country, we would 
commend the Midland route. These were the con- 
siderations which moved us to select this route, 
and we were not disappointed in our ex.\tecAa.\.v^n. 


, ... W3 


i"rJi :: ■'-•• ■■■■ -; ; 1 

worshiped ; and also Mount 
Vernon, to which we have 
already referred. 

This county is remarkably 
well-wooded and watered, as 
is the entire region through 
which our journey lay. It 
has a diversified soil, from 
sandy to red clay, and pro- 
duces all the cereals and 
many of the fruits and vege- 
tables consumed in the adja- 
cent cities. Much of the 
land here has been cut up 
and subdivided into beau- 
tiful and highly -cultivated 
farms, which are owned 
almost entirely by North- 
ern settlers. Some of these 
lands have increased in 
lalue from twelve to one 
hundred dollars per acre, 
ami this is not to be com- 
pared with what the results 
would l>c along the Mid- 
land if the lands there were 
subjected to similar treat- 
ment, for in most places 
the soil is of a far superior 

Burke's Station, some 
fourteen miles from Alex- 
andria, has still some of 
its old familiar look, but 




1-cuving Alexandria 
tinn through Fairfax ( 
arc 'many objects of n 
4 an object 

v ]iass in a westerly direc- 
iii ty. within whose borders 

: and some of national in- 
nrtliv of note, we would 

mention the 
High Schou 

find he 

tit KpihMi]tal Seminary and 
with its Ix-Juliful grounds and ex ten - 
As objects of national interest, we 
riax Court -House, where the will of 
lington i> recorded ; I'.mick Church, 
.ing, and where he 

fered a complete change. 
Adjoining it lies one of the 
most beautiful little farms 
to be seen in this pan of 
the county. From the cars 
one can see everything that 
a thrifty farmer could well desire to have on a 
place of its size. Meadow and upland and orch- 
ards alike are in excellent order. Here, truly, is 
an instance of what good farming can accomplish 
for land heretofore characterized as poor. 

The next point, after passing Fairfax Station, is 
Clifton. This place was for a considerable time 
during the war used as a depot for army supplies. 
Many earth-marks are still visible on the sur- 
rounding hills. It has a small population, three 



churches, one hotel, a spoke factory, and sawmill. 
It is an attractive village, and we learn is much 
resorted to during the summer months by hoarders 
from the cities. The residents are directing their 
efforts to fruit culture, and with great success, some 
of the fruit commanding excellent pricesat a home 

After leaving Clifton we soon enter Prince Wil- 
liam County, which we traverse in a southwesterly 
direction until we reach Manassas, now a very 
flourishing village. Here a branch road, called the 
Manassas Division, forms a junction with the main 
line. The town is situated on the summit of a 
high table-land, and commands a beautiful view 
of the surrounding country. No place in the State 
has been of so rapid growth since the war. As 
late as 1868 there was not a vestige of fence or 
building on the spot where it now stands. To-day 
it is the largest town in the county, has a popula- 
tion of six hundred, one newspaper and real-estate 
journal, saw and grist-mill, churches and schools, a 
number of fine stores, and two hotels, one of them 
a large, new, and commodious building. More 
than a dozen different States 
and nationalities are here repre- 
sented, all harmonizing with 
Virginians and Virginia institu- 
tions as well as the most liberal- 
minded could possibly desire. 

The productions of the county 
are varied and rapidly increas- 
ing, with ample facilities for 
transportation to the best of 
markets. The development of 
minerals in the vicinity of the 
road is progressing, and bids 
fair to become a source of con- 
siderable profit. The red sand- 
stone deposit crosses the rail- 
road track near the town of 
Manassas. Several quarries have 
hern opened, and the stone is 
being extensively shipped to 
Washington and other markets 
for building purposes, for which 
it is said to be a very superior 
article. The best of hematite 
iron ore has been found in 
large quantities near Thorough- 
fare Station, on the Manassas 
Division. Other minerals of 

: value have also been discovered at various points 
in the county, but none of them have as yet been 
1 developed to any very great extent. 

This division extends to Strasburg, in the Shen- 
andoah Valley, and by it connection can be 
made at this point for Winchester and other 
j points in the upper valley westward and north- 
1 ward. Here it is worthy of mention that about 
i six miles to the northeast of this place, in the 
j direction of Fairfax, was fought the first battle 
■■ of Manassas. At Bristoe, the next station south, 
and situated about two miles west of Brentsville, 
j the county seat, several battles were also fought 
1 during the war, one on the 17th of August, 1862, 
between Generals Hooker and Ewell, and another 
on the 14th of October, 1863, between Generals 
' Warren and A. P. Hill. And although this im- 
I mediate section suffered very considerably from 
I the ravages of the contending armies, we are 
j pleased to notice that it has rapidly recovered 
I therefrom, and to-day very few traces remain 
I visible to the passing traveler. 
' Shortly after leaving Bristoe we enter Fauquier 



County, one of »he finest counties, if not the finest, ■ sought for, and are rapidly supplanting the old 
in this portion of the Stale. This is the beginning , and now discredited system. There is scarcely an 
of the grass or grazing region, which extends industry that is not improved or encouraged with 
with but few local exceptions of diminishing a prospect of largely -increased profits in the near 
importance through Culpeper, Rappahannock, future. The people here are evidently looking 
Orange, Madison, Albemarle, Nelson, and Am- forward to the time when they shall be able to 
herst counties. Fine sheep, cattle, and horses compete with the most progressive in agricultural 
are raised in this entire region, but nowhere of productions. They no longer seem contented with 

higher pedigree and qualities than in this county. 
The old Virginia fondness for fine horses and fox- 
hunting is still to a considerable extent indulged 
in. Many gentlemen keep hounds, and sometimes 
it happens that the English immigrant brings with 
him hounds of famous foreign breed only to have ; 
them outstripped in the chase by the more hardy '■ 

We find also a growing disposition, everywhere ! 
apparent, to advance small industries of every ' 
kind. Skilled labor and machinery are eagerly 

the old, indifferent way of doing things, but prefer 
adopting the most approved and ready means to 
secure the best and most profitable systems, scien- 
tifically considered, opportunity may offer. With 
a proper extension and growth of this feeling and 
spirit, it will became only a question of time when 
the staple productions of this county will- be mul- 
tiplied an hundred-fold. Its mineral productions 
also bid fair soon to be of as much importance as 
any other of its industries. In the southern sec- 
tion of the county numerous gold diggings are 


now in operation, and in certain other sections of the Virginia Midland connects with its main 
some of the finest varieties of iron have been dis- , line. This branch extends to Warrenton, the 
covered. The iron industry awaits only the intel- county seat of Fauquier County, near where are 

ligent application of capital to the construction of : located the widely-known White Sulphur Springs. 

furnaces to make it one of the most prosperous ' Here annually resort some of the most distin- 

i rid us tries of the county. guished people from all parts of the country, to 

At Warrenton Junction, the Warrenton branch enjoy both the excellent society and the health- 



giving properties of the spring-water. It is only 
nine miles from the junction, and is situated on 
a commanding eminence in the very heart of the 
county. In passing through this section many in- 
teresting incidents of the late war recurred to our 
mind, and especially was this the case when we 
arrived at the junction. For here it was that the 
"Ohio men" polled their vote on a certain elec- 
tion day while on a march little less than the 
double-quick. There was no repeating, persona 
ting, or use of tissue ballots, we believe, but if we 
recollect aright there was a serious attempt made 
to break in upon their exercise of the elective 
franchise, which came too late, however. That 
vote went "solid for Mulhoolv, M notwithstand- 
ing. It was in every sense a running vote, cast 
under serious difficulties, and we believe, if the 
presence of bayonets is an evidence of an unfair 
election, this must have been the un fairest ever 
held. But then, kind reader, there was no civil- 
service reform in those days ! 

Bealeton and Brandy stations, next in order, are 
passed, both with their well-known war histories; 
but the mutations of time have worked many im- 
provements in the general appearance of the sur- 
rounding country. The land is of an excellent 
character, well adapted to agricultural purposes, 
the soil generally of a deep red, and the sur- 
face beautifully diversified and fertile. Culpeper 
County, the next in order, shows much agricultural 
and some manufacturing activity. Population, 
capital, and labor arc alone wanted to bring into 
full cultivation her waste lands, and restore her 
that* abundant prosperity which she enjoyed in 
former years. 

The mineral wealth of Culpeper County has 
only been partially explored. Some rich speci- 
mens of magnetic ore have been found between 
the town of Culpeper and Mitchell's Station. 
This ore may be seen along the railroad track 
between these two points on the farm of Major 
E. B. Hill. Other surface indications have been 
found near Mitchell's Station and on and near 
Slaughter's Mountain, and there is but little doubt 
that future explorations will prove the vein, when 
found, of a rare and valuable variety of ore. 

The town of Culpeper is the first place of real 
prominence we strike upon our route thus far. It 
is located immediately on the line of this road, 
and from its elevated position commands an 
extensive and beautiful view of the surrounding 

country, and the Blue Ridge Mountains beyond. 
The growth of this place since the war has been 
rapid and continuous, and its population has more 
than doubled. There has been a wonderful display 
of energy and enterprise exhibited in the efforts 
put forth, to produce such results as we see devel- 
oped here. Its large number of excellent business 
houses; its court-house, one of the handsomest and 
most costly in the State; its many churches, rep- 
resenting every denomination ; its schools, banks, 
and mills, place it in point of importance by the 
side of any town of equal population in the State. 

In the County Court of Culpeper is the follow- 
ing record : 

"July 20th, 1749. — George Washington, gen- 
tleman, produced a commission from the President 
of William and Mary College, appointing him 
Surveyor of this county, which was received; and 
thereupon took the usual oaths to his Majesty's 
person and government ; and took and subscribed 
the abjuration oath and test, and then took the 
oath of Surveyor, according to law." 

Washington was then in his seventeenth year, 
and continued in office for three years. 

Within a half mile of the suburbs of the town are 
located the Fair Grounds of the Piedmont Agri- 
cultural Society, one of the most energetic and 
successful in the State, and which bids fair to 
rival, in the number, excellence, and variety of 
its exhibitions, many of the older institutions of 
the kind. The grounds are near the Virginia 
Midland road, by which all articles and stock for 
exhibition can be promptly transported. Many of 
the most prominent men of the riedmont region 
have, by their energy and business tact, materially 
aided in building up this institution and making 
it a decided success. In these efforts they have 
been ably seconded by the cordial aid and influ- 
ence of the enterprising management of the Vir- 
ginia Midland. 

We would also note the fact that in this vicinity 
is to be found the finest of building-stone. This, 
as has been demonstrated by experiments made at 
the Smithsonian Institution, in Washington, and 
at other places, has stood a pressure of over forty- 
eight thousand pounds to the square inch without 
suffering the lea*t fracture. Quarries of this stone 
have been opened along the line of this road be- 
tween Culpeper and Mitchell's Station, and the 
supply is seemingly inexhaustible. The greater 
portion of it can be excavated from the quarries 



without blasting or drilling, coming out in beau- 
tiful cubical blocks suitable for rough walls with- 
out dressing. 

Culpeper County is left as we cross the Rapid 
Ann, when, leaving Cedar Mountain, with its war 
recollect ions, to the rear, we enter the red lands of 
the southwest mountain range, famed of old as the 
nursery of statesmen, among whom may be named 
Jefferson, Madison, Monroe, and Taylor, who 
reached the Presidency, and the three Harbours, 
all of whom filled exalted positions in the govern- 
ment. These red lands have been very productive, 

Great Mountains, describes the region around 
Rapid Ann Station thus : 

" ist September, 1716. — At eight we mounted 
our horses, and made five miles of our way through 
a very pleasant plain, which lies where Rappahan- 
nock River (Rapid Ann) forks. I saw there the 
largest timber, the finest and deepest mould, and 
the best grass that I ever did see." 

Since crossing the Rapid Ann we have been 
passing through Orange County, and on our way 
take in Orange Court-House, Madison, Somerset, 
Barboursville, and Gordonsville. The first has a 


but have been much impoverished by a series of 
exhausting crops, by superficial plowing, and by 
general careless and slovenly farming. Their 
recuperative power, however, is great, and they 
respond readily to any effort at improvement. 

Passing from the red lands, the road enters 
>hac is known as the Limestone Valley, from a 
small vein of limestone which traverses the State, 
extending into Maryland and North Carolina. 
T'ne flats of this valley are extensive and well 
suited for meadows. The hills are thin, but might 
doubtless be made rich by the limestone which 
seems to have been placed here for that purpose. 
Lower down, this valley, as it approaches the Rapid 
\nn River, widens considerably, and has within 
is area many most excellently cultivated farms. 

Governor Spotswood, in his journey across the 

population of about eight hundred, and is built 
upon and among commanding and beautiful hills, 
while the surrounding country is dotted with 
elegant residences. 

The next in order is Madison Station, located 
on Madison Run, which takes its rise in the lands 
formerly owned by President Madison. His resi- 
dence, Montpelier, is distant two miles from this 
station Many valuable marble, limestone, and 
iron deposits have been discovered here, and are 
worked to a limited extent. Extensive veins of 
red, brown, and yellow hematite, twenty-five feet 
in thickness, have been opened, and the indica- 
tions are that still deeper a specular variety of 
iron ore will be found. The continuity of the 
magnetic ores of the adjoining county of Alber- 
marle, and the facilities for obtaining coal and 



wood, offer a fine field for the erection of furnaces 
and the manufacture of iron in these counties. 
Even now in some places these veins are being 
actively worked, and the ore is shipped, with 
large profit, to the furnaces on the Chesapeake 
and Ohio Railway. Near Stony Point, in this 
county, large deposits of fine ore are being devel- 
oped, and preparations are now being made to 
work them on an extended scale. 

Gordonsville Station is situated about one 
mile north of the flourishing village of the same 
name. This town expects, and with apparent 
reason, to become, if it is not already, the great 
railroad centre of the Piedmont district. While 
its growth has not been by any means phenomenal 
as in the instance of some of our far Western 
towns, it has nevertheless been remarkable. There 
is probably no village in any of the old settled 
States which has advanced more rapidly than this 
place has done since the close of the war. Before 
the war it was a place of little business activity, 
and of meagre population. It now claims, how- 
ever, to have a population of some fifteen hundred, 
with some forty or more business houses, quite a 
number of manufacturing establishments, churches, 
and schools of the very best character. The build- 
ings are for the most part of wood, yet they are 
tasteful and handsome structures, and the general 
ap|>earance of the town is both pleasant and 

The place gained some notoriety during the 
war. It was an important point by reason of its 
railroad junction, and for a long time was the 
base of supplies for the Confederate armies in the 
valleys of Virginia. 

The surrounding country presents some very 
attractive features, and its peculiar conformations 
materially add to the fertility and richness of its 
soil. No section of the country can be more 
blessed with purity of air and salubrity of climate 
than is this. The waters of the red land are soft, 
cool, and healthful. The springs, though not bold, 
are numerous and never failing, and it is rare, 
indeed, that a valley is found without its abun- 
dant stream of pure water. Such is the healthful 
character of its climate that even the most tran- 
sient visitor, at any season of the year, will feel 
himself invigorated by breathing its pure air when 
walking, riding, or hunting among its varied and 
beautiful hills. 

»oj» Orange the road passes toward the south- 

west through the Montpelier estate, the home 
of President Madison, and shortly after enters 
Albemarle County. After a run of some twenty 
miles, and passing through a delightful section 
of country, somewhat rolling and mountainous, 
though esteemed one of the finest agricultural, 
grazing, and mineral districts in the State, we 
reach Charlottesville. This is the county seat, 
and is situated on the right bank of the Rivanna 
River and some twenty miles distant from the 
base of the Blue Ridge. No town in Virginia 
possesses greater renown and is more entitled 
to distinguished consideration at the hands of 
the traveler than is Charlottesville. The advan- 
tages and industries of the place are worthy of 
special mention. Charlottesville contains nine 
churches, embracing almost every creed ; four 
public and six private schools; two national 
and two savings banks ; a large number of mer- 
cantile establishments; one smoking tobacco and 
cigar factory; several plow, broom, farming-mill, 
carriage, and wagon manufactories, and one iron 
foundry. Just outside of the town are the Char- 
lottesville woolen-mills, which are apparenty doing 
a large and lucrative business. The manufacture 
of cigars is also an important industry of this 
place, the production approximating a million or 
more annually. The extensive cultivation of the 
grape hereabouts has led to the formation of a 
wine company. Large quantities of wines are 
made, and of most excellent quality, if we may 
be considered a judge. On all sides the visitor 
beholds evidences of a thrifty and industrious 
people, and the society one meets here is of a 
high order of intellectual refinement and culture. 
Hospitable and courteous by nature, the stranger 
meets a welcome both considerate and hearty, 
and in reaving carries away with him a lasting 
impression of the most favorable character. 

From various points in and about this town the 
scenery is grand and imposing, and the country 
on every hand presents most beautiful and pictur- 
esque situations. It is here and in its vicinity 
that in times past many of the distinguished men 
of the State resided whose influence and abil- 
ities were pre-eminently exerted in the councils of 
both the State and the nation. Among these we 
find the honored names of Madison, Jefferson, 
Monroe, Wirt, and Lewis. Two miles in a south- 
easterly direction from here is Monticello, once 
the residence of President Jefferson. Here this 



earnest patriot and statesman lived, died, and is \ fertile and picturesque section of country, although 
buried. One mile west of the town, and within | somewhat mountainous. The mineral develop- 
iis suburbs, on gently rising ground, is the famous [ ments through here bid fair to become of more 
University of Virginia, a State institution, which ' than ordinary importance, as already large quan- 
owes its origin to 
President Jefferson. 
This institution is the 
best in the South, 
and takes high rank 
among the best uni- 
versities of the United 
States. It is becom- 
ing more and more 
useful, attractive, and 
comprehensive in its 
system of instruction, 
and promises at no 
distant day to com- 
mand a respect and 
influence that will 
make it one of the 
chief educational cen - 
ires of our land. It 
has an average annual 
attendance of four 
hundred students, and 
possesses the finest 
and best equipped 
laboratory in the 
State. Its faculty con- 
sists of some fifteen 
professors, all repre- 
sentative men, though 
not selected as repre- 
sentative of any par- 
ticular creed, philoso- 
phy, or religion. The 
Alumni of this in- 
stil at ion, we under- 
stand, are endeavor- 
ing to raise an en- 
dowoient fund of 
1500,000, and are 
meeting with marked 
success in their efforts. 
Here connection is 
made with the Chesa- 
peake and Ohio Railway for Greenbrier, White I tides of a fine variety of iron ore have been 
Sulphur, and many other medicinal springs and discovered and shipped to Baltimore and Phila- 
pkasare resorts of Virginia and West Virginia. del phi a for experiment. The principal produc- 
South of Charlottesville we pass through a tions are tobacco, the cereals, and fruits. 
Vol- XVI.— 14 




Beyond Covesville the road enters Nelson 
County, which lies upon the north bank of the 
James River. This county is watered by the 
Rockfish, Tye, and Piney rivers, the first emptying 
into the James at Howardsville, and the others 
uniting and emptying at New Market. These 
and other mountain streams give to the country a 
superabundance of fine water power for manufac- 
turing purposes. The greater part of its surface 
is hilly and mountainous, the soil is generally rich, 
while the intervening valleys are extremely fertile. 
All parts of the county are especially adapted to 
the culture of fruit, particularly apples and grapes; 
of the former, the two most excellent varieties are 
the Albemarle Pippin Wine-sap and the Pilot. 

Some twenty-two miles of travel through this 
section to the Tye River, where we cross into 
Amherst County, and a further run of about the 
same distance in a southwesterly direction brings 
us to Lynchburg, popularly known as the Hill 
City of Virginia, and located on the south bank 
of the James River at a point where the Midland 
Virginia crosses the river and the Atlantic, Missis- 
sippi, and Ohio Railroad. To the west and the 
immediate north of the city, one gets a glorious 
view of the mountains of Amherst County. The 
passage of the James through the Blue Ridge is 
a magnificent spectacle. Lofty mountains rise on 
every side, and shadow the ravine and rapids 
below. Nothing more sublime is to be seen in 
the entire length of this mountain chain from the 
Potomac to the James. 

The James River affords ample water power. 
Capital intelligently applied is alone needed to 
make it available. Already on the two levels of 
the adjacent canal, the Kanawha, are to be seen 
two rolling-mills, three large foundries, two large 
flour-mills, two bark and extract manufactories, 
and numerous other factories. It is difficult to 
conceive of a place much belter suited for every 
species of manufacturing. Labor and living are 
as cheap as at any accessible point on the conti- 
nent, with coal, iron, and lumber within easy 
reach, with cheap water transportation east and 
west, and with railways diverging to all points of 
the compass by which to transport all the possible 
productions of the most extensive manufacturing 
establishments. No better point for the develop- 
ment of new wealth can be found by capital and 
skilled labor than is here presented. 

Lynchburg is a flourishing city, and its people 

are very enterprising. Although their fortunes 
were to a considerable extent swept away by the 
ravages of the war, the same basis of wealth 
remains, and they are again making it the foun- 
dation for future accumulations. 

The great staple of trade and manufacture in 
this city is tobacco, and it is estimated that there 
are some seventy or eighty establishments engaged 
in its manufacture or manipulation in some form 
or other. The Lynchburg brands of smoking and 
chewing tobacco are those best known in the 
markets of the world. 

The population of the city is something le>s 
than seventeen thousand (16,959), and its social 
and commercial interests are of a high order, fully 
developed, and showing an uncommon degree of 
progressive enterprise. There are water and gas 
works, most excellent public and private schools, 
and churches representing almost every creed or 
denomination. In the suburbs of the city are 
the beautiful and commodious fair grounds of 
the Agricultural and Mechanical Society, which 
has adorned them with well arranged and appro- 
priate buildings. This society offers annually a 
large and valuable list of premiums, and we 
observe that much attention is being given to the 
display of the best samples of native minerals. 
The result of this has been to secure an increase 
in the quality and variety entered, until now it 
is hardly possible to find any locality or State 
that can produce such a rare and valuable collec- 
tion. Large shipments of Bessemer ore are now 
being made from the James River ore-beds near 
Lynchburg to the Steel Company of Pennsyl- 

A pleasant feature of this section of country is 
its excellent climate and marked health fulness. 
This, together with its attractive scenery, eligible 
position, and superior hotel accommodations, make 
the place one of considerable resort lor seekers of 
health. Besides, there are here, within a radius 
of sixty- five miles, more or less, many natural 
curiosities, places of summer resort, and institu- 
tions of learning, all easily reached by some one 
or other of the available modes of travel. Among 
these we may mention the Natural Bridge, Peaks 
of Otter, Lover's Leap, the White, Salt, Red, 
Yellow, and Blue Sulphur Springs, University of 
Virginia, Virginia Military Institute, Hainpden- 
Sidney, Randolph-Macon, and Roanoke colleges. 
These already enjoy a national reputation, and 



anything we might here say of them could not 
materially add to their interest nor cause any 
better appreciation of their excellent features. 

After leaving Lynchburg, we enter the fine 
lumber regions of Campbell 
County. This and the adjoin- 
ing county of Pittsylvania offer 
in the lumber trade an ex 
tensive and an extremely pro 
fitable field for investments. 
Already parties have entered 
very extensively into the busi- 
ness in Pittsylvania, and we 
understand have prepared, 
ready for market, more than 
3,000,000 feet of the best 
quality of seasoned timber. 
The facilities for the ready 
transpottation of this lumber 
are now afforded by the Vir- 
ginia Midland, which traverses 
this section from north to 
south, in a central position, 
and which should induce the 
investment of capital hereto- 
fore restrained from lack of 
such facilities. 

The tobacco produced in 
Campbell and Pittsylvania 
counties also enjoys a very 
high reputation for its pecu- 
liar excellence ; so much so, as 
to command the very highest 
market price, due, no doubt, 
to the peculiar quality of the 
soil and its skillful manipula- 
tion. We need hardly add 
that U is the main staple of pro- 
duction throughout this set 
tion of country. 

From Franklin, half wav 
between Lynchburg and 
ville, a branch road 'the 
Franklin Division) extends to Rocky Mount, 
county seat of Franklin County, a distance of 
thirty-seven miles. This road was constructed to 
reach the ore beds of Pittsylvania and Franklin. 
From Pittsfield on this line about thirty thousand 
tons of Bessemer ores of unusual purity have 
already been shipped to the Pennsylvania Steel 
Cumpany at StceiLun, Pennsylvania, and the mine 
is now actively worked. 

The same company has large and valuable 
mines at Rocky Mount, Franklin County, from 
which large shipments have been made, and 
they are now putting in improved machinery. 

with the view of working these mines in their 
full capacity. 

These developments have all been made within 
the past three years, and only indicate the extent 
and value of the deposits of the richer steel ores. 
while hematites suitable for the production of mill 
and foundry irons are found all along the road in quantities, and experienced iron-maifcm 
have recently published iheu csAvnvaAwi <A c<»\ cA 



producing iron in this section, showing that pig 
iron will not cost two-thirds of what it does in the 
iron region of Pennsylvania. 

After a pleasant journey, we reached Danville, 
on the south bank of the river Dan, the southern 
terminus of the Midland road where it connects 
with the Piedmont Air Line to the South. Dan- 
ville is a place of great activity, and is especially 
noted for its manufacture of tobacco. It is pleas- 
antly situated on high ground, near the head of 
navigation, and is surrounded by a fine fertile 
farming region, which abounds, also, in good 
coal, iron ore, and limestone. The canal which 
has been constructed around the falls at this place 
affords abundant water-power, while the stream 
furnishes minor transportation for much of the 
produce of the county shipped to and from this 

From the number of railroads projected and in 
process of construction to all points South, Dan- 
ville bids fair to become one of the principal 
railway centres of the Southern country. It is a 
growing and progressive town, with a population 
above seven thousand, and with every prospect of 
doubling within another decade. No town has 
a more energetic population, and no busines men 
enjoy a higher reputation. Its leading industry, 
tobacco, occupies the most of the commercial 
establishments ; it having no less than eight large 
warehouses for the sale of leaf-tobacco alone. 
There are some nineteen factories devoted to the 
manufacture of chewing and several of smoking 
tobacco, the respective firms of which enjoy well 
established trades in their line throughout all 
sections of the country. 

We can only reiterate, in conclusion, what we 
have already set forth as to our observations of 
the vast mineral and agricultural resources pre- 
sented by the Piedmont region of Virginia. They 
are simply unlimited and awaiting development. 
Climate, society, facilities of transportation, arc 
all that could be desired. We would further add, 
that it is our opinion, well confirmed, that the set- 
tler here will find far superior advantages to any he 
may be able to find upon the extreme confines of 
our western civilization. The hills and valleys of 
Virginia can support millions of additional popu- 
lation, and it is to secure these that the Virginia 
Midland has offered, and is offering at the present, 
such liberal inducements to all immigrants and 
Northern men seeking new settlements. It is a 

wise policy, and one that works mutually to the 
advantage, not only of the road, but to the country 
and the settlers as well. 

A word more to our friends of the Old Domin- 
ion, and we are done with our present article. 
We may have more to say of our further journey- 
ings in a future article, but having exhausted our 
allotted space, must draw to a close. Remember, 
friends, that the South of to day — the new South 
— is vastly different in a material point of view 
from the South of twenty years ago. It behooves 
her people, therefore, to put the past resolutely 
behind them, and the sooner the better. # This is 
a practical age. A people cannot live on what 
has been. They must adapt themselves to their 
surroundings, and cease repining for that which 
has gone never to return. There is no reason 
why the hundreds and thousands of young men in 
the South, said to be out of employment, should 
be out employment. There is no reason why any 
man in the South, who is able and willing to labor, 
should be idle. It is true that employment can- 
not be readily obtained in the towns and cities. 
It is true that there is a superabundance of law- 
yers and doctors. It is true that the merchants 
cannot find places for all the young men who 
wish to be clerks. It is true there are not official 
positions enough for all the young men who wish 
to live upon the public. But for all those who 
are willing to quit the cities and go out into the 
country, who are willing to put their hands to the 
plow and the hoe, there is employment and a 
livelihood. There is no work on the street cor- 
ners, but there is plenty to do in the fields and 
the forest. There is untold wealth concealed in 
the very midst of you, which requires but the sweat 
of your brow and the use of the pick to unearth. 
Exert your manhood, drop that spirit of indo- 
lence which mars it, and join the band of workers 
that are so manfully and energetically building up 
and regenerating one of the noblest of our glorious 
old commonwealths. 

The great need of the South today is immi- 
gration — immigration that will settle unoccupied 
lands, that will develop her great natural resources, 
that will build up and enrich the country, and 
that will stimulate her people to put forth all their 
energies in the battle of life. This need, we are 
pleased to say, the South fully comprehends, and 
hence to-day it gladly fosters and "encourages 
every enterprise promising such results. 




By Paul Pastnor. 


Again it was August ; the days of midsummer, like millers, 
Shook out their aprons of dust on the low-lying valleys. 
Whiteness on all things had gathered, like hoar-frost in 

Dry was the breeze, as it kneaded the dead, heavy water, 
Thick with the down and the pollen that floated upon it ; 
Even the clouds, that were restlessly roaming to northward, 
From their white feet shook a haziness over the landscape. 

Oliver Bascom had nodded himself into slumber, 

Sitting at ease on the porch of his lodging, the Island 

Over his face lay the paper which he had been reading : 
Dimmed was the news of the world by the dust of the 

island ! 

Suddenly crept o'er the crest of the quivering hill- top 
Two weary horses, and then a long wagon ; and in it 
Farmer Laroix and Lora his daughter were sitting. 
Whitened with dust was the face of the amber-cheeked 

maiden ; 
Yet was her countenance pure as the face of the Virgin, 
Crusted with frost, in the window of lofty cathedral ; 
While, as she glanced at the dust-laden cap of her father, 
Gleamed her white teeth like pearls set in ruddy-hued coral. 

Wearily farmer Laroix drew his whip from beneath him 
(Where in the straw it had Inin till they came to the hill- 
Beat from the shaggy black ponies a cloud of deception, 
Urged them afresh, as they dashed down the slope with the 

Thereupon Oliver Bascom, awakened from slumber, 
Gazed up the road toward the dust-cloud so swiftly ap- 
" Who drives so fast in this terrible weather?" he wondered. 
" Does he bring news that my barns or my haystacks are 

Meanwhile the dust drifted by like the smoke of a battle, 
Leaving the farmer and Lora, as pale as the wounded, 
Behind it. Then Oliver Bascom remembered the maiden, 
The night on the Sand-bar, when Lora had ridden beside 

him — 
Alas, he had almost forgotten, in pressure of business ! 
u Whither so fast, in the heat?" he called to the farmer, 
Bestowing, meanwhile, a man's look on his lovely com- 

" Lora must needs pay a visit," the father made answer, 
" Unto her aunt, who is keeping the Sportsman's Inn, 

There the good lady, I doubt not, will set her to drudging, — 

; Cooking and serving the game of those idle young fellows 
Who have come up from the city to shoot on our island. 
But 'lis an obstinate maiden — you cannot dissuade her!" 
Merrily laughed then the girl at the words of her father, 
Glancing up into his face with the fond, arch confession 

' That her sweet will ruled supremely, and knew no oppressor. 

" But you will stop here, and rest till the cool of the even- 

Begged the young man. " .See ! the horses are heated and 
i weary." 

" Thanks — we will stop," said the farmer. Then in through 

the gateway 
Rumbled the wagon ; and Lora was pleased, though she 

spoke not. 

\ Gratefully cool was the twilight descending around them, 
■ Ere from the porch of the tavern the travelers descended, 
Thanked their good host for the rest and the pleasant 

Which through the long afternoon he had kindly provided, 
Mounted the wagon, which stood by the horse-block in 

Waved a farewell, and with briskness continued their 

Long stood the land -owner musing, when they had departed. 

Ah ! that sweet afternoon's talk on the shady piazza ! 

(For the tired father had fallen asleep in his arm-chair, 

Leaving the man and the maiden alone with each other). 

" Love I so fondly," mused Oliver Bascom, with earnest, 

" All the fair fields toward the sunset I'd give for her good 
i Oh, when so near me she sat, in that wicker chair rocking, 
! Waves of her presence went over me, coming and going ! 

Now she receded, and now she approached like a billow, 

Broke on my soul, and o'erwhelmed me with rapture and 

Henceforth I live to possess thee, O beautiful Ix>ra ! 

Thou art more precious than thousands of fields in the sun- 

Slow hath my heart been to yield unto love'> sweet per- 

Parched with self-thoughts, like a day in the height of 
midsummer ; 

Now it pours forth like a shower on the warm, thirsty 

Lora, I love thee ! with manhood's full fervor, I love thee !" 

Early the dusk had descended and mantled the island. 
Hiding its gray, thirstful face with a veil of compassion. 
Now, like a pall, fell the darkness on forest and hill-top; 
Still-footed night tucked its edges deep into the hollows. 



Alone in the Island House parlor, dim-lighted and cheerless, 
Sat Oliver B as com, and pondered the day's events over. 
As the rill o/ a sunbeam glides out at the gates of the 

Widens, and deepens, and girds half the globe with its 

So, since the morning, his life had grown hmad as God's 

Thus as he dreamed, on the window there came a light 

. tapping, 
Out in the grass, too, a stir, and a rustic like footsteps; 

Also the trees shook their leaves, and laughed into the 

darkness ; 
Pattering sounds, like the feet of invisible couriers, 
Rose from the dust in the road and the rails of the fences. 
Lo ! it had come, the sweet rain ! it had come out of 

heaven ! 
Eagerly then the dry earth stirred, and moaned to receive it, 
As a sick child, parched with thirst, lifts itself in its cradle, 
When from afar come the steps of the night-gracious mother, 
And from a bowl in her hand the big plashes are falling! 

{To br rontinued). 


By Marian H. Ford. 

During the months of November and Decern- ! 
ber lovers of fancy-work usually devote their time 
solely to the preparation of holiday gifts, but with 
the New Year comes leisure for the manufacture 
of many a pretty trifle to beautify parlor, dining- 
room, or chamber. Various new and charming 
devices are constantly invented by busy brains 
and executed by dextrous fingers. Nothing lends 
home a more cheerful, attractive appearance than 
the presence of a few bright bits of embroidery. 

Bureau sets are now among the articles con- 
sidered indispensable in a tastefully furnished 
chamber, and are made of all sorts of materials, 
from the inexpensive Java canvas, embroidered in 
various designs in colored wools, to costly laces 
lined with satin, or silk, satin, plush, and velvet, : 
painted by hand and bordered with lace. j 

A very pretty style, lately designed, consists of 
an oblong and two square mats, with another 
square large enough for a pincushion cover, made 
of scarlet or blue wool canvas, fringed around the 
edges and embroidered in cross-stitch with any 
pretty pattern. After the embroidery is completed, 
outline each stitch with gold-colored machine 
silk, D. The effect is novel and charming. White 
wool on scarlet canvas, and black on blue, out- 
lined with gold color, form a pretty contrast. 

The accompanying illustration (Fig. i) supplies 
an effective pattern for this purpose. In outlining, 
pass the needle from corner to corner of the cross- 
stitch in a straight line ; four stitches of gold color ' 
will of course be required to outline each cross- 

If it is desirable to have a set that mav be 
washed at pleasure, this pattern can also be 

worked on white Tava canvas or coarse white 
linen, using scarlet embroidery cotton for the 
darker, and blue for the lighter stitches. The 
effect is extremely pretty, and the labor very 
trifling. It will be noticed that the pattern is so 
arranged that it requires very little ingenuity to 
turn the corners. 

If a still plainer bureau set is preferred by the 
housekeeper, one-half the design may be used, 
but in this only one color should be employed. 
In both sets ornamented with embroidery cotton 
the outlining is omitted and only the simple 
cross-stitch used. 

A very effective, cheap, and pretty bureau set is 
made of appliqut tidies of different sizes, — two 
small ones for the square mats, an oblong one for 
the large mat, and a fourth for a pincushion. 

Cover the cushion with the color desired, and 
lightly tack the tidy along the edges. It is well 
to buy one sufficiently large to have the border 
extend half an inch beyond the cushion, though 
if the cover is of handsome material, some persons 
prefer to get one very much smaller, and fasten it 
at each of the four corners in such a manner that 
it forms a diamond-shape on the cushion, display- 
ing the lining beneath. 

Cut the shapes for the mats of card -board, and, 
if an inexpensive set is desired, cover with a 
pretty shade of silesia. Tack the tidies lightly 
over them, and finish the edges with a ruche of 
satin ribbon. When soiled, they can be ripped 
off, washed, and replaced with very little trouble. 
For a room in constant use, it would be hard to 
Revise any style at once so pretty, cheap, and 


Another variety is made by using for a pin- always keep a band kerchief-case and glove-box on 

Numerous are the fabrics employed 
manufacture, from Russian leather, plush, 
velvet, and Japanese lacquer- work, 
to quilted and painted satin, card- 
board bound with colored ribbons, 
etc. An extremely pretty style is 
M shown in the accompanying illustra- 
' (Fig. a). 

Two squares of satin of the sire 
lesired are lined with silk of the 
same or a contrasting color, and inter- 
ned with a sheet of thin wool wad- 
ing, over which perfumed powder 
is strewn. The lower square is quilted 
in diamonds about one inch square, 
and the upper one overlaid with a 
»k<iii>eky>. cover of embroidered net, a pattern 

(Fig. 3) for which is given, 
painted This net may be white, darned according to 
be used the pattern with white linen floss, or black, darned 
mbroid- with gold, blue, or crimson. After laying the 
ered satin of the same shade, trimmed with antique cover over the satin, edge with cord of the colors 
lace. Or, the antique lace squares purchasable at of the outside and lining, and ornament the centre 
any fancy-goods store can be used, lined with any with a rosette of silk or satin ribbon. The glove- 
tint that harmonizes or contrasts prettily with the case is made in the same manner, but the shape 
prevailing color in the room, and bordered with is of course oblong, instead of square, 
antique lace. A very handsome combination of colors, where 

exquisite set for a bridal gift has a pin- the other tints in the room will permit their 

covered with a piece of embroidered 
satin. The oblong and square mats 
with this cushion may be of painted 1 

cushion covered with white satin, on which i 
painted a spray of orange blossoms and myrtle- 
leaves. The oblong and square mals are of the 
same material, bordered with ruches of narrow 
white satin ribbon and edged with lace, which 
may be as costly as the weaver's purse will 
admit. To make the mats, cut stout card-board 
foundations of the shape and size desired, cover 
the outside with the satin, and the inner surface 
with silk, and finish with the ruches and lace. 
Chenille may be used with good effect in place 
of the ruches, if it can be obtained the same 
shade of white as the satin. 

A pretty addition to this set is a pair of 
glass perfume bottles, covered with white satin, 
painted to match the pincushion and mats. 

Apple-green satin sets, with a design of snow- 
drops, and pale-blue ones with wild-roses, or a 
cluster of poppies and wheat, are very beautiful. 
Decalcomanie pictures of Kensington art-work 
can be substituted for the hand -painting. 

Many persons, besides a pincushion and mats, 

use, is black satin lined with gold color, over- 
hid with black lace darned with gold-colored 
filoselle, and edged with black and gold cord. 
Black satin, lined with white or rose-color, and 

overlaid with white, is also a pleasing combina- 
tion, and very beautiful. 

A more simple but pretty set is composed of 
silver card-board with open-work stripes, each 



stripe being embroidered with colored wool. For Another variety is made in the same manner, 

the handkerchief case, cut a square of card-board using quilted satin in place of the card-board, 

fur the bottom, and another of the same size for and finishing with a ruche of satin ribbon. A 

the top. Divide the halves. After embroidering very handsome set of this kind, intended for a 

the three pieces, line each with silk the same shade bridal gift, seen by the writer, was of white satin, 

as the wool, and bind with narrow ribbon. Next quilted in diamonds about three-quarters of an 

fasten the two pieces to the square below with inch square, and finished with ruches and bows of 

small bows of ribbon, threeon each side, thus form- while satin ribbon. Wax beads were sewed at 

ing lids. Fasten the lids together in the centre 
with a ain vie bow, and the case is completed. 

For the glove-box, cut two oblong pieces of 
card-board the size desired, and embroider the 
one intended for the top. Line both with silk, 
bind with ribbon about an inch in width, and 
fasten together with three bows, one at each end 
and one in the centre. Sew a piece of ribbon 
half a yard long to the middle of the top, and a 
similar piece to the middle of the bottom of the 
ca»;e, just where the two edges meet, and tie in a 
bow by way of fastening. 

each corner of every diamond formed by the 
quilting, the effect produced being extremely 
chaste and beautiful. 

Handkerchief-cases naturally sugges' handker- 
chiefs, and there are doubtless numerous readers 
of the Monthly who will appreciate the exquisite 
one illustrated in this article ( Fig. 4). The pattern 
(•""'«■ 5) of the border is so clearly shown that 
description would be superfluous. Any one even 
slightly acquainted with this kind of work will 
have no difficulty in following it. Another article, 
to be found in almost every apartment of homes 



where household decoration is studied, is the table- ] 
cover, made in every style, from the most simple to ! 
the most elaborate, and of a great variety of mate- 


rials, both costly and inexpensive. A very pretty 
and cheap cover can be manufactured from a square 
of " butcher's linen," obtainable al any dry-goods 
store. Fringe the edge to the depth of four inches, 
then leave 3 piece of linen an inch wide, draw 
threads for the space of half an inch, and use the 
accompanying pattern (Fig- 6) of drawn-work, 
embroidering with either red or bit 
embroidery cotton. Again leave a band of li 
an inch wide, and draw a second row of threads 
half an inch wide, repeating the pattern 
work. One row of drawn-work may be embroid 
ered in red and one in blue with excellent effect. 


inches. Pass ribbon an inch and a half wide in 
and out through the threads, always remembering 
to leave the same width of ribbon below the 
threads as is laid above them, and finish with a 
dainty bow at each of the four corners, where a 
square opening will remain after the threads are 

Another comparatively inexpensive but very 
pretty cover is made of a square of fell, blue, old- 
gold, or dull red, as bests suits the room in which 
it is to be placed. On this square, about two and 
a half inches from the edge, arc laid four strips of 
felt contrasting in color, fastened to the cloth by 
rows of feather-stitching. Pink both sides of the 
strips, and use one row of feather -stitching on 
each side. In each of the four corners place an 
applique figure, — a bird, butterfly, Japanese figure, 
or spray of flowers, — and finish with a silk acorn, 
ball, or tassel. 

One of the prettiest table-covers of this style is 
a square of dark wine-colored felt, bordered with 


Another finish is to fringe, the linen to the strijis of light-blue or old-gold, fcnther-st itched 
depth of four inches, then leave a space an inch with black, or if an Oriental effect is desired, 
wide, and draw out threads for the space of two , closely covered with rows of IiAtVxw-iAVwSvw^, 



each one a different color. Each corner is orna- | line with gold thread, or of saleen with a border 
merited with an appliqui figure of different design, : of plush, ornamented with a garland of flowers in 
and finished with a tassel made in the following Kensington art-work, and edged with a rich fringe 
manner: Take a piece : or antique lace. 

of the felt three inches A very beautiful material for embroidery is 
long and two and a half pongee silk. Extremely soft and pliable, it hangs 
deep, and leaving lulf an j n graceful folds, yet is sufficiently firm not to 
"pucker" easily in working. It can readily be 
fringed, and the color of the fabric forms an ex- 
cellent background, and harmonizes with almost 
any tint employed in furnishing a room. Sun- 
flowers, cat-tails, daisies, and blue corn-flowers 
all look admirable embroidered upon it. 

An exquisite table-cover recently shown the 
writer was composed of nothing more elegant, by 
way of foundation, than ordinary bed-ticking, in 
rather wide stripes of blue and white. The blue 
stripes were covered with black velvet ribbon, 
fastened by fancy stitches of gold thread, the 
white stripes nearly concealed by an embroidery 
of various fancy stitches made with bright-hued 
silks, — a different stitch and different shade of 
of the loop, and wind smoothly and firmly around silk being used for each stripe, — and the whole 
it, thus forming a tassel of the fringed felt, with bound with black piece-velvet an inch and a half 
the loop in the centre. Sew the end of the felt- wide, feather-stitched on the edge nearest the 
roll firmly, then wind embroidery silk around the cover with gold-colored silk. The effect was very 
solid portion of the tassel until it is entirely con- Oriental, and very beautiful. The cover was a 
cealed. The embroidery silk should be of two ■ yard long and three-quarters of a yard wide. If 
colors, the upper and lower part contrasting with i any of the readers of the Monthly have time and 
the shade in the centre. The 

effect is very pretty, the ijUH&&AJhjb£&&AtfeBAIi^ , :iA £>IA&A&-j»&Jl&tirf>bJW " 
trouble very trifling, and the 
expense almost nothing. 

Another variety, much *uJu»nas!*xxx.-> r. j.^^->ou&K-fiMa&mii..ja.KBu^w>jEjiiaMwM&duvkttMKM 
c elaborate than the styles pj ^gg&^<^.a££i£5 
previously described, but very \JSV. 

inch at the top, slash it evenly from end to end, 
keeping a space one-sixteenth of an inch wide 
between each rut. Make a loop of silk cord one 
or two inches long, according to fancy, fasten the 
end of the solid part of the felt to the joined ends 

I". *"JTii\ » XVI- •> . H. uV .- "- ' J PL JJl JV BK Sit »i B> ,V B ft /'..I Sft .** . 

beautiful, is a square of scarlet 
wool canvas, embroidered in 
crosw>titcli with black wool, 
outlined with gold colored 
silk, in the design given in 
the accompanying 
tions (Figs. 7 and 8), which 
clearly show the patterns for 
border and corm r. The single 
stitches of the pattern are 
made with the same gold- silk used for outlining 
the cross-stitches. 

Stilt more costly covers are 
of plush, embroidered in out- 


■SO'^V,.- - 

> fyyt j! wgt l ;'g'i'i *i'i*s" !:V!w 


yv^'s ?vjw 



patience to follow these directions, we cm assure j and sew them firmly around the edges of both 
them that the result will not be disappointing. square boards, and also down the four legs of the 

Another elaborate and elegant cover — which : table. In putting them on the legs, leave a space 
also requires time and patience — is illustrated in about half the length of the tassel, between each 
the accompanying cut (Fig. 9). , two tassels. Diack canton flannel, trimmed with 

It is a yard and a quartet square, made of ecru black tas=els, whose tops are wound with gold 

congress canvas, and bordered with lace three 
inches wide, — ecru antique lace is the prettiest 
for the purpose, — and tr 
embroidery, drawn- 
work, and plush. 

For the outer bord> 
of drawn-work, use tr 

table-cover of butcher's 
linen; for the broad 
border of embroidery, 
the designs for the 
border and comer o) 
the scai let wool canvas 
table-cover, and fo' the 
narrower inner border, 
the pattern given in the 
accompanying illusira- 
lion (Fig. 10). 

Having made the 
drawn work border, and 
embroidered the wider 
pattern, sew a band of 
crimson, maroon, or 
blue plush on the cover, 
and finish with the 
narrower border inside. 
If preferred, the bind 
of plush can be fastened 
on with fancy stit< hes 
of bright hued - I- . hut 
in the writer's opinion 
it is handsomer without n>. 8.- 

this addition. 

From table-covers to tables is a very short step, 
and some varieties of the latter can easily be made 
at home, with the aid of an ordinary carpenter. 
An extremely pretty one consists of two square 
boards — a foot square is an excellent 
four straight legs. Cover the lour leg; 
the two boards, 

a very handsome table, 

as does al-o 

th tassels wound with wl 

le or black 

ere these colors harmon 

izc with the 




rest of the furniture. Such tables are also fre- 
quently covced with the same material as the 
coverings of the chairs and sofas, in which case 
the tassels are omitted, and the two square boards 
—and are hordered with woolen ball fringe, matching 
well as ' the tints of the covering, 
old gold-colored canton Another dainty table, specially adapted for a 
flannel, fasten the second board below the first, chamber, is the old-fashioned "hourglass," now 
about half-way down the table; then with old- in high favor again. The frame-work, of pine or 
gold-colored split zephyr wool make numerous ■, some other soft, light wood, can readily be m arm- 
lit tl« tassels, each about an inch and a half long, [ fiictured by the veriest amateur. The toci awl 

bottom are formed of two circular pieces of wood greater substance, and finish with a cord of the 

of equal size, from twelve to eighteen inches 
diameter, according to the fancy of the maker. 

These circular pieces are then connected by a 

same or a contrasting color. Fasten a tassel 
on the point and at each of the lower corners. 
Prepare an equal number r f oblong pieces, but 
do not line them or point the bottom. Gather 
them on both sides and sew under the corded 
block as far as the straight sides extend. Nail 
them around the top of the table and conceal the 
joining under a ruche of the material, or if pre- 
ferred, a flat piece of felt, pinked on both sidc3 
and with a braid of contrasting color tacked 
through the centre, with the ornamental tacks 
used in upholstery, may be used. The bottom and 
centre of the table are finished in the same manner 
as when cambric and muslin are employed in the 

A stilt more elaborate ornamentation for the 
top is to fasten an applique figure of a butterfly, 
bird, or flower on each of the pointed blocks, If 
possible, the design on each block may be dif- 

A clever idea, which originated in England, 
but has been quickly followed here, is to convert 
an old black silk hat into a work-basket. This is 

pole of the length necessary to make the table done by putting a silk or satin lining into the 
the height the owner desires. Cover the top crown, drawing it into a bag at the top by means 
smoothly with pink, blue, red, or apple-green of strings. Then pass a wide ribbon, the color of 
Silesia or cambric, overlaid with dotted Swiss the bag, around the outside of the hat, concealing 
muslin. Next tack the cambric around the top the joining under a cluster of loops, intermingled 
and bottom, wholly concealing the pole that with wheat or dried grasses. A gentleman's dis- 
serves for a standard, and cover with the Swiss carded "stovepipe" may thus become a useful 
muslin, finishing the top with a ruche of satin and pretty object, though it must be confessed, in 
ribbon the color of the cambric, and the bottom the writer's opinion, the straw hats, manufactured 

with a plaited frill of muslin under a , -■-.•. ■ . ■ ■ ■ ■ ■■•■■> • 

similar ruche. Tic a band of wider 
ribbon around the centre of the stand, 
confining the fullness in hour-glass shape, 
and finish with a bow of ribbon or cluster 
of flowers. 

A style better suited for a sitting-room, 
because more capable of standing hard 
wear, is made on the same wooden foun- 
dation, using cashmere, flannel, cloth, 
or felt in place of the cambric and muslin. 
Cover the top smoothly with the woolen 
fabric, which may be embroidered if * H,,,,n ; , " ,n ™ ,n ~ IT, ~ , ~~ wiw^^^i j«wim '".":.. .- ! AH 
preferred, and make a lamhrequin to no. 10.— demon for bokdek. 

surround it in the following manner: 

Cut a sufficient number of oblong blocks to go j in the same shape for the purpose of being oma- 
half-way around the top. Cut the bottom of mented in this way, are prettier, 
each in a single point, line with cambric for Another pretty and useful idea for which we 

c^xd ? x , %.x# , :x7"*.x.#^c ,, «a 



are also indebted to our English cousins is that of 
the "coffee cozy," used to keep the coffee pot 
warm and also to cover the unsightly tin articles 

t (cross- 

id which coffee is often served. The illustration 
of one of these articles made of crocheted stripes 
was given in the February Monthly; but they 
are also very frequently composed of more elegant 
materials; in some cases, the stripes being of 
hand-painted or embroidered satin, and the 
border of lace. Felt, flannel, and silk are also 

In making them of these materials, first cut the 
stripes of proper length, sloping them at the top 
in a manner easily followed by looking at the 
design in the February number. Sew the stripes 
neatly together, covering the seams on the outside 
with narrow rows of velvet ribbon or braid , feather 
or fancy-stitched to position. Line w ; th a iliin 
sheet of wadding and a piece of lining silk of any 
suitable shade. 

A novel and quaint style of lamp-shade, whose 
gay tints form a bright spot of color in a room, is 
made of a small Japanese pjper parasol. Remove 
the handle, and cut off the top, making an open- 
ing large enough to fit easily over the lop ol the 
lamp-shade. Conceal the cut portion under a 
narrow ruche of satin ribbon, and if still more 
ornamentation is desired, fasten a tiny bail or 
tassel to the end of each rib. The bottom of 
the parasol should not project much below the 
bottom of the lampshade. 

In the recent rage for decoration, a most useful 
article, the shoe-bag, formerly made of stout \ 
brown linen, patch, or flannel, now comes in for 
its share of adornment. The linen, flannel, or 

felt foundation is still retained, bound with braid 
of si'me contrasting color, feather or fancy stitched 
to position; but each pocket is ornamented with 
an appliqui figure, a bird, flower, 
butterfly, queer Japanese water 
■, etc. 
Another, and later style, which 
ought to commend itself to 
readers who desire to have arti- 
cles in daily use durable as well 
as pretty, is made of strong ecru 
or brown linen, bound with red 
or blue braid, and having on 
each pocket a design worked in 
the Kensington outline stitch 
with scarlet or blue embroidery 
cotton. These designs may be 
figures, Japanese fans, tea-pots, 
plates, or indeed any print com- 
posed only of a few simple lines may be turned 
to account for this purpose. Made in this manner, 
they can he passed through the wash as often as 

Similar but larger designs are stamped on coarse 
while or ecru linen for tidies used on furniture in 
constant wear. Embroidered in scarlet, they are 
bright, quaint, and pretty, and— boon to the 
housekeeper — always return "as good as new" 
from the laundry. 

A pattern much admired by the writer, ard 
probably to be obtained at any store where 
stamping is done, represents a Japanese fan of 
the size ordinarily used. On the upper portion 
is an elaborate landscape with figures similar in 
general effect t^ those seen on the paper funs 
that flood the shops during the summer season. 


A tidy of ecru or brown linen embroidered in this 
design with scarlet embroidery in the outline 
stitch used in Kensington art-work will, perhaps, 
when completed, lie considered too pretty for 
daily wear in sitting-room or chamber, and pro- 
moted for a time to drawing-room or library. 

In chronicling the useful and pretty articles now 
found in tasteful homes, the buffet cover must Dot 


be dmitted. Many persons who have an old-fash- 
oned side-board, or one whose marble top is 

stained, cracked, on in any way disfigured, will \ 
welcome this new device. 

The accompanying illustrations (Figs, it, ta, , 
13, and 14) givi- a design for a very handsome 
one of coarse white linen, trimmed with drawn- ! 
work, cross stitch embroidery, and fringe. The \ 
patterns for drawn-work and embioidery pre- 
viously illustrated in this article may be used for ' 
the cover, the drawn-work being bordered on \ 
both sides with ihc narrow pattern, shown in 
the cut, which also extends down the long sides. 
The pattern of the fringe shows the mode of 
manufacture so clearly that description is unnc- ; 

A wider pattern of drawn work, illustrated in 
the accoinpan)ing cut, may be substituted for the 
narrow one used in the table-cover, if preferred. 
The spray of flowers in each corner may be em- 
broidered or omitted, according to the maker's 
taste. The words of the proverb, "Sail und 
Brod gebe Goti" 1 arc worked in cross- stitch, any 

1 Salt anil bread give, O Cod. 

letters suitable for embroidery on card-board 
being used. 

Buffet-covers ore usually a yard and a half long 
and half a yard wide, but the dimensions can be 
varied to suit the si*e of the side-board. 

Another very pretty style is of white lvucfca- 
buck, bordered across the front and ends with 
antique lace three inches wide. Above the lace 
a border four inches wide, of any design that suits 
the maker's fancy, is embroidered with scarlet 
cotton in out line-stitch. 

Tusser silk is also much used for this purpose, 
trimmed with ecru antique lace, or fringed to the 
depth of two inches, and embroidered in button- 
hole-3titch to prevent raveling. Outline-stitch, 
worked with scarlet embroidery cotton, is most 
commonly used for the border above the lace or 
fringe ; but .1 border of solid embroidery in while 
silk, similar to those used on flannel, may be sub- 
stituted, or a border of Kensington art-work in 
washable crewels or filoselle, though the latter 
method of ornamentation would doubtless be 
somewhat too gay in its effect to please quiet 

It is scarcely necessary to add that the borders 
used on table-covers and other articles can be 
almost indefinitely varied to suit individual fancy. 
For instance, the table-cover with the drawn-work 
and band of plush would still be very elegant if, 
instead of the more elaborate de-ign, the maker 
substituted the narrower pattern of drawn-work 
combined with the pattern of cross-stitrh em- 
broidery used for the wool canvas bureau-mats, 
adding above it the plush band ami the very 
narrow border of cross-stitch embroidery edging 
the long sides of the buffet-cover. Too rigid 

adherence to every minute detail of a pattern is 
often to be deprecated rather than ad viced, since 
it tentls to repress the exercise of individual taste. 
Oftentimes the patterns given should be con- 
sidered simply as help- or hints to stimulate 
independent efforts a:id invention. 




By M. Y. Safford. 

Some davs in midwinter overcoats are worn in 
Naples ; on the other hand, we eat spinach from 
the fields and artichokes freshly gathered from the 
gardens, while both Italians and foreigners carry 
bouquets of roses plucked from the hedges just 
outside the city. Yet snow lies on the mountains, 
toward which the Neapolitan often glances with a 
shiver when a cold breeze is blowing. But the 
winter we were there no snow remained on Vesu- 
vius, the grave majestic neighbor of the gayest. 
most garrulous city on earth, and therefore people's 
eyes often rested for an instant earnestly on the 
mountain as they murmured, " Lavora il monte" — 
the mountain is laboring. The mountain attracted 
eyes and thoughts more and more frequently ; for 
a heavy cloud had formed, shrouding the whole 
summit, dark, gloomy, and constantly growing 
denser. The distant roll of thunder echoed from 
the summit, and in the evening a lurid crimson 
glow flickered over the dark cloud. "Lavora 
molto" whispered the Neapolitan, losing a little 
of his loquacity ; for though accustomed to his 
dangerous neighbor, the sight affected him un- 
pleasantly. It was very different with foreigners ; 
they seemed fairly electrified, their faces beamed 
with the most eager expectation and interest, and 
the office (in Portiqi) where guides to Vesuvius 
are engaged was thronged with tourists, cabmen, 
and donkey-drivers. In the streets of Portici and 
Resina the oddest figures appear to offer their ser- 
vices, bearing huge staffs, satchels, belts, torches, 
lanterns, sedan-chairs, ropes, and many other 
things which no one ever has used or will use in 
ascending Vesuvius. If one is engaged, six others 
pursue the traveler for half an hour, explaining 
how indispensable their assistance would be. 

At last we emerge from the throng and mount 
the somewhat steep, but otherwise perfectly easy 
road to the mountain. It passes gardens carefully 
surrounded with high stone walls, that no glimpse 
of the interior may be obtained ; vineyards, which 
produce the famous Lacrimse Christ i wine ; lonely 
farms, whose fields are divided by aloe hedges; 
crumbling houses, each of which suddenly becomes 
an inn by virtue of placing before it a few old 
straw chairs, with a worn-out cask to serve for a 

table, while the owner watches behind the wall to 
sell passing foreigners Vesuvius wine at extortionate 

The soil grows more stony, while here and there 
a huge aloe, with ragged, dusty leaves, gives the 
landscape a peculiar, almost African character. 
The ground slopes abruptly downward, and far 
below gleams the sea, steeped in sunlight, a glit- 
tering blue expanse, whose splendor and richness 
of coloring far surpass the fairest summer sky. 

Here and there appears a stunted corn-field, an 
attempt at a kitchen-garden, and a little scanty, 
withered grass ; but the more desolate and dreary 
the surroundings become, the wider and more 
brilliant grows the expanse of sea below, while 
far beneath mist-veiled islands emerge from the 

" Here Ischia smiles 

O'er liquid miles 

And yonder, bluest of the i»les, 

Calm Capri waits, 

Her sapphire gates 

Beguiling to her bright estates." 

The carriage creaks, the horses' hoofs rattle, 
and our footsteps sound strangely shrill. We have 
entered the domain of death that surrounds* the mys- 
terious mountain — lava. Strange, rugged ridges, 
walls, furrows, blocks — dead, desolate, every trace 
of life extinguished as far as the eye can reach in 
the ravines and on the heights : rigid as petrified 
foam, rough and black — black with brownish-red, 
pale-yellow, dirty-green tints, but black, rusty 
black, is the prevailing hue for miles; a strong 
wind blows that silences the tourist's gay conver- 
sation — one cannot laugh and jest in this domain 
of grim death. 

"Eeco l osseiTatorio .'" cries the guide, and 
before us, a relief to the eve in this drearv wilder- 

' * * 

ness. though the sight evokes grave thoughts, rises 
Professor Palmieri's far-famed observatory, a two- 
story building with two little towers. Here the 
mountain's pulse is felt, its fiery throbs are regis- 
tered, and the moods and condition of the rest- 
less giant are signaled to the world. The eye is 
attracted by a marble tablet, affixed to a pillar in 
the wall of the house, on which are inscribed the 



names of the fifteen unfortunates, who, overtaken 
by the glowing lava, found a horrible death not 
far from here in 1872. A solemn memorial ! 
Here the carriage-road ended, and from this point 
we walked. For about an hour the road winds 
gradually upward over desolate fields of lava; the 
wind blows harder; it is beginning to smell strongly 
of sulphur; the eyes water and the tourists cough. 

We stand at last on a layer of ashes, and over 
us Moats a dense smoke. Scaling this hilt of 
ashes and pumice-stone is the last stage of the 
ascent of the mountain, and delicate or very 
corpulent persons allow themselves to be dragged 
up by the guides, by leather belts to which they 
cling. Step by step the pedestrians climb up- 
ward through the loose ashes. An exciting, 
fatiguing walk, sinking or slipping half-way back 
at every step. The wind grows colder, more 
piercing, the odor of sulphur more penetrating, 
and a low rumbling sound reverberates till the 
ground trembles beneath the feet and distinct 
shocks, which seem to come from below, send a 
peculiar thrill up the travelers' backs, urging 
them with still greater haste toward the edge of 
the crater. That was what it meant to ascend 
Vesuvius when we were there. From near the 
observatory one had to walk, or ride on mule- 
back, over a footpath cut in the streams of har- 
dened lava to the foot of the cone, when one 
began the two or three hours' zigzag climb up a 
slope that barely takes seven minutes to descend 
— pestered half the way with porters anxious to 
carry him up on a litter — shin -deep in loose 
ashes and crumbling scorix*. Now, however, 
there is a railway and the ascent can be made 
with all the "modern improvements" which the 
ingenuity of engineers can suggest. The car- 
riage road now extends to the foot of the cone, 
and there is situated the lower station, from which 
the train starts for the summit, a distance, as the 
crow flies, of a little over a thousand yards. 

As we near the top it smells of coal -smoke, it 
smells of vitriol, alum, melting metals, burning 
salts; a hot, acrid vapor rises from the cleft, riven, 
charred, disintegrated soil, with suffocating odor. 
We have reached the edge of the crater, and are 
gazing into the hu^e pit, from whose depths, amid 
loud panting, puffing, rumbling, bubbling, and 
hissing, rises a vast cloud of acrid, suffocating, 
yellow, red, white and black smoke and vapor, 
which a strong wind disperses far over the country. 

The ground on which we stand is hot; a few 
inches below the surface, burning hot ; the guide 
thrusts a twig into a little cleft in the earth and 
draws it back blazing, he puts an egg on the 
ground and it is cooked in a moment, cigars are 
lighted by being held at a crack in the earth, and 
a hundred paces downward from the path the 
soles of the shoes are scorched. 

Those who shall hereafter climb Vesuvius by 
rail will hardly enjoy the lunch of eggs roasted 
in the hot sulphurous cinders, and the refreshing 
bottle of Lacrimal Christi, as much as we after 
our battle with the slope and the cinders. 

The impression produced by this abyss of death 
and destruction is singularly gloomy ; there is a 
sense of savage cruelty, scornful malice, fiendish 
joy, in the raging of the subterranean fire. 

Desolation and death around ; but from beneath 
the sea gleams with a golden light the most bril- 
liant sunshine flashes on the waves, and this broad, 
smiling mirror is circled by cities and villages. 
Yonder, where the sea sweeps so far into the land 
and clings to it so lovingly, is Naples; glittering 
like ivory, the city surrounds the bay, spreads over 
the hills, and extends to the brown slopes of the 
mountains, while farther on the enraptured gaze 
rests upon blooming fields, gleaming with varied 
hues of blue and green, and besprinkled with 
thousands of houses and farms, villages, palaces, 
villas, and cities. A wondrous spectacle viewed 
from this smoke-crowned mountain summit ! 

It was evening when we descended, and we met 
numerous parties of tourists coming up the moun- 
tain; Englishmen in fantastic traveling costumes, 
and ladies in chairs borne on the shoulders of 
silent, panting guides, while boys lighted the way 
by torches held close to the ground. Behind us 
the lurid reflection of fire flickered over the dense 
cloud of smoke and cast wavering gleams upon 
our path ; the rumbling and muttering continued, 
and seemed louder and more dreadful as the dark- 
ness increased. 

It was late before we reached luxurious and 
wicked Naples again. Before returning to our 
rooms we sought refreshment in one of the bril- 
liant Neapolitan oifes. It was thronged with 
well-dressed gentlemen and handsome ladies, who 
chatted gayly as they drank their wine or coffee, 
or ate dainty cakes and ices. But from Professor 
Palmieri's observatory still came the warning 
words : ' ' Lavora mo/to molto. 




By Keziah Shelton. 

" And o'er the farms, O chanticleer ! 
Your clarion blow ; the day is near." 

" My errand is not death, but life," he said. 

Seventy years ago to-day a hoary-hcaded man 
might have been seen trying his much-experienced 
best to urge the old horse which he bestrode into 
a little quicker pace. He had been peremptorily 
summoned, just before daybreak, to farmer Hatha- 
way's, to officiate at the advent of an expected 
arrival. The kind-hearted, though gruff, old 
country doctor soon had "Betz" quickly saddled 
and turned her knowing head up the river road. 

Too practical to appear to notice the lovely 
scenery along the winding thread of brown, dusty 
earth he so often traveled, he heeded not the 
artistic pictures that occasional glimpses of the 
river revealed, as some gracious bend in the high- 
way brought its watery beauty into full relief, 
only capriciously to take it away at the next 

As the rising sun gleamed upon the hedges 
brilliant with dew-drops, he never thought of 
comparing their glistening to diamonds or opals. 
His thought was only of shunning the wet bushes 
by the roadside, and he soliloquized somewhat 
lugubriously that it was really going to be a 
Si yellow one," and if he could not return before 
the sun was "well up," the now dew-laid road 
would be " dretful dusty." 

He also fretted some at Hetz's laziness. Not 
having had her breakfast, she was this morning 
even slower than usual, and he knew by experience 
that he was liable to be most severely tongue- 
lashed by all the old housewives in the neighbor- 
hood if he was late. 

Farmer Hathaway's bar- way — the main entrance 
— was soon reached, and Mr. Hathaway himself 
was leaning upon the upper bar and discontentedly 
wondering whether he should have to go again. But 
no; his "luck" was not quite so perverse, for 
here was the good old slow country doctor. 

Hathaway hastened to "let down" the bars 
and Dr. Knap rode gravely over their lower part, 
heedless that the experienced Betz in seeking for 
Vol. XVI.— 15. 

the very lowest point of ingress had crowded 
hi in against the dusty bar-post to the disadvantage 
of boot and pantaloon. 

Gravely he rode through the yard and its mys- 
teries, following the path around to the back of 
the house that he might dismount as a professional 
ought, at the so-called front door. 

Here let me ask, Why did our ancestors build 
their houses so that the kitchen-door, with its 
strings of dried apples, peppers, and seed-corn 
above, and its swill-barrel at the left, horse-pail 
at the right, wood-pile in front, the tip-cart, 
lumber wagon, cider-barrels, and heaps of cider- 
apples, should all face the road ? 

Each guest that arrived either "hitched" at 
the bars and came in by the stile, or alighted, 
took out the bars, and, seizing his steed by the 
head, led him (while the family all took a turn 
looking through the window at the arriving com- 
pany) slowly around and through this conglom- 
erate array, and circumspectly fastened him to the 
post placed for that purpose close beside the front 
steps ! 

Why they were called front steps we do not in 
the least comprehend. If we were told that in 
those less ceremonious days company was expected 
to "come right into the kitchen," we should be 
less surprised ; but the much-worn tooth-marked 
posts either side of the step destroy that theory 
utterly. Yet all the disagreeables were with much 
pains paraded for inspection, apparent care being 
taken that nothing should be omitted that could 
annoy the eye or offend good taste. 

But all this pride of disorder was nothing this 
morning ; the doctor just escaped the shrews' 
tongues; a tiny bit of femininity was added to the 
Hathaway household, and was quickly named after 
an ancient much-beloved ancestress — Cvn. 


Ox that same lovely morning which ushered 
little Cyn into existence, over the river another 
child was born of equally poor and humble 
parents. This child found a swarm of brothers 
and sisters in full possession of the home and 
the hearts of its parents, and was merely looked 



upon as another baby. For a long time, indeed, 
it was of so very little consequence that it was 
not even thought necessary to call it anything but 
it, or baby. 

When asked its name, the answer was invariably, 
"Name? La sakes, 'taint got any; dunno, but 
'spose we'll have to think up sunthing or other 
afore spring, 'cause the collector will be round," 
and they would assume an injured look as if the 
Annual Registry Act was a cruel despotism, which 
opened a fair question whether 'twere better to 
submit gracefully, or wiser to rebel and demand a 
rescindment of the objectionable law. 

Law / Who has not listened with keen amuse 
ment to the "chimney-corner lawyer" as he dis- 
cussed some excellent law for the greatest good 
of the greatest number ? In some trifling respect 
it would inconvenience him; and as he would 
philosophically sit and toast his feet before the 
crackling fire and dreamily watch her as she was 
rapidly rounding doughnuts and dropping them 
continuously into the smoking fat, dexterously 
removing at the same time by some intuitive 
knowledge of their doneness the daintily browned 
ones, with what elaborate array of arguments he 
would criticise the new measure and expatiate 
upon its dangerous provisions ! And she, without 
neglecting her work for a moment, or allowing a 
single particle of the hot fat to drip upon the 
floor, would not only listen, but join in the dis- 
cussion, throwing in many a shrewd suggestion. 

Woman's rights, her wrongs; temperance, total 
abstinence, and prohibition are all, here by the 
fireside, discussed from various points of view. 
How excited women get, and how very enter- 
taining to hear them clamoring for the rights and 
privileges of which they fancy themselves deprived, 
when we know that if they would but read the 
"statute laws" which they are so busily reviling 
they would find the law was already in their favor 1 

"Baby" was born under peculiarly inspiriting 
circumstances; the old women and the doctor 
had been holding a fierce argument upon the 
then less agitated question of "Women's Rights," 
the old conventional doctor declaring vehe- 
mently, for the thousandth time, perhaps, that it 
was all a mistake; that women were growing dis- 
contented with their normal sphere ; that it would 
be just as sensible for a man to howl because he had 
to plant and hoe instead of staying within doors 
and sitting down by the kitchen-table to chop 

hash for supper. He said woman was weaker, and 
needed the more sheltered position that custom 
had long given her ; that she would be the first 
to sneer at her husband if he wanted to take a 
rocking-chair out into the field to sit in and rest 
himself occasionally. He asked the women how 
they would like it if every time their husbands 
came into the house and found them snatching a 
moment's rest in their rocker or by the open win- 
dow, they should begin a tirade about the wrongs 
of their sex at having to endure the greater portion 
of the hardships of this world. 

They retorted, that was nothing to the question ; 
what they wanted was equal rights, equal privi- 
leges with the men. 

" All right !" chuckled the old fellow. " Then 
you'd better begin to look things over and see 
which of your privileges you'll give up; for as you 
have got far the best of us men now in all the 
laws, that's the only way to equalize." 

The sneering faces of the disgusted women was 
their only reply then, for at this very moment 
"Baby" interrupted the important discussion by 
the announcement of her safe arrival as a guest in 
the Bell household. 

" Oh, my sorrows ! another girl ! poor thing ! 
If you'd only been a boy now, there'd been some 
chance for you in the world ; but girls are slaves 
or nuisances nowadays. Sh ! sh 1 poor baby ! was 
it crying so soon !" And Granny sweet- by e-byed 
it until it was soothed. 

The doctor scowled and said: "Don't begin so 
early to fill that baby's head with strong-minded 
notions; she looks to me as if she'd have common 
sense if you ranters will only let her alone. She's 
got a fair chance in the world ; she came of good 
stock ; her mother is a good, sensible, industrious 
woman, one that cares for her house and family 
as well as she is able, and wastes no time blas- 
pheming God because she wasn't born a man, 
that her sphere might have been more suited to 
her self-fancied ability." The doctor closed his 
remarks suddenly, as if disgusted with himself for 
noticing such folly. 


•« O thou child of many prayers. 
Life hath quicksands, life hath snares 1 
Care and age come unawares !" 

Fifteen years ago this morning good old Dr. 
Knap rode up the romantic river road and found 

CYN. 227 

Mr. Hathaway leaning upon the bars, anxiously i appearances might be the very same disorder of 
awaiting his arrival. I fifteen years ago. He glances fondly at the win- 

To-night in the early gloaming Mr. Hathaway dow where stands his queenly daughter, her face 
might have been seen with somewhat of an added aglow with the excitement of present happiness 
grayness to hair and beard since we saw him last, and bright expectaiiuns. 

vueemlv" cvs. 

and not quite so steady of nerve and limb ; not Daintily though inexpensively arrayed, she 

leaning upon the bars this time, but wending his presented a rare picture of natural loveliness j the 

way, with a milk-pail in each hand, from the barn fichu of cheap lace and the snowy under-sleevcs 

across the road into the house-yard, carefully testified that Mrs. Hathaway, like her husband, 

itepping around, through, and over what from was both fond and proud of Cyn, 



Only one glimpse at Cyn's soft baby-like, pink- 
tipped fingers was needed to teach one that, though 
in kumble circumstances, they had "managed" 
to shield the child of their old age from all hard- 

Cyn early developed a refined taste in arranging 
her dress, that made her, even in her twenty -five- 
cent delaine, look "every inch the lad v." 

I said queenly Cyn ; it was spoken soberly and 
after much deliberation ; she belonged to that rare 
type of physical development occasionally met 
with, perhaps twice or thrice in a life-time — more 
rarely even than that among girls of her age. 
Such girls arc much to be pitied ; for, with the 
impulses of the child, to the world they present 
the physique of a maiden of twenty, and when 
they speak like a child they do not meet with 
the indulgence due to childish ideas. 

Cyn at twenty would look no older than to-night, 
as, with crimpy, dusky hair, bewitchingly arranged 
about her finely shaped head, she stood with her 
lovely face pressed closely against the window- 
pane, peering down the fast-darkening road, as if 
impatient for the arrival of some one. 

Unfortunately, as all persons of experience know 
too well, country people allow their children to 
attend evening parties, dancing and singing schools 
as soon as they are large enough ! What a criterion ! 
The overgrown girl of nine, the premature maiden 
of fifteen, the gushing matron of twenty-two, the 
young spinster of twenty-five, all mingle their hopes, 
their frivolities, their petty jealousies ! Those who 
in after-life have opportunities of mental develop- 
ment will never cease to regret the worse than 
useless waste of physical strength, which gave 
them no return of value, and only served to delay 
for years their rig!, tin I mental growth. 

Girls of fifteen, who give and attend evenii g 
quadrille and moonlight croquet parties, arc sow- 
ing in pleasure that which they will reap with 
sorrow; their guardians have much to answer for 
in consenting to that which will rob them of that 
quietness of nerve so necessary to their future life. 

Mr. and Mrs. Hathaway had first taken pride 
in having Cyn "invited out." and the neighbors' 
daughters of the same age ignored ; ami as her 
early-fostered appetite for s»:ch excitements as the 
country entertainments afforded grew stronger, 
their weak affection fur her rendered them useless 
as guides, and soon restraint was out of the ques- 

Most country girls without brothers can tell a 
weary tale of staying away from the few entertain- 
ments of the surrounding hamlets. Cyn knew 
nothing of such deprivations; for two years she 
had mourned only that she was not her own twin- 
sister, so that she could accept twice as many of 
her lovers' attentions. 

Her early-developed worldly wisdom and shrewd- 
ness taught her to accept the first escort on the 
field, and then she tossed her head and coquetted 
so sweetly with the many that she was forced to 
reject that they felt it was better to be refused by 
Cyn than accepted by one less charming. Half 
of the rejected "went alone" for the sake of being 
at liberty to pay Cyn all attention at every oppor- 
tunity; the crumbs of comfort Cyn could thus 
bestow in her bounteous manner were of far more 
value than the undivided smiles of her less fasci- 
nating associates. 

Thus Cyn was feasted with flattery until without 
it life would have seemed a barren waste. Novel- 
reading completed the girl's education ; if to these 
attentions she could have added the jewels and silks 
of her favorite heroines, she felt that she should be 
perfectly happy. She dreamed of being richly 
clad and lying upon luxurious silken lounges, or 
gently resting in some crimson-cushioned sleepy 
hollow, — the realization of an idealistic uphol- 
sterer's thought of comfort. Then, surrounded 
by this daily adulation, she should be happy. But 
what were the realities of her lot ? 

An ordinary farm-house for a home ; her father 
and mother performing the most menial duties 
therein daily. She was spared, but she knew 
that they bore her share. Her share ! that was 
bitterest of the bitter for her to remember; she 
longed to escape, and to feel that such disagree- 
able work had not the shadow of a claim upon her. 

She would fain be away from it all ; the constant 
remembrance was very unpleasant : the rag-carpet 
upon the best room floor; the home-made lounge, 
calico-covered ; the splint-bottom chairs ; the 
rockers with their feather cushions, also calico- 
covered ; the small red table under the insignifi- 
cant gilt-framed glass — all these things tormented 
her; they were not like her dreams. 

She desired to leave them and have her fancies 
realized. Never yet had been granted her a glimpse 
of such as she had read of; the best she had seen 
was at the home of Burton Meredith's father. The 
Merediths were well-to-do people, who lived in 



the village. Mrs. Meredith had always eclipsed 
her neighbors; but recently she had rendered 
them all but speechless with astonishment, envi- 
ousness, and admiration by sending to Boston for 
an "English" carpet, with hideous red, green, 
and yellow figures "worked" into the most unnat- 
ural shapes, doubtless intended to be a mixed 
representation of geometric and botanical fancies; 
but they must have been designed by one afflicted 
with a disordered imagination. 

Yet Cyn was not the only one that would say 
that Mis. Meredith's parlor " went ahead of any- 
thing in the town." 

Burton Meredith, Jr., had been one of Cyn's 
most ardent admirers, and Cyn really cared more 
for him than any of the others, and, besides, there 
was his father's wealth and his mother's carpet, 
and why should she not accept him when he 
offered ? 

The quick, light rumble of a carriage suddenly 
ceases at the bar-way, and Cyn's heart throbs all 
too quickly for such a child in years. Tall and 
lithe as she is, she bounds like a child through 
the dark entry, out of the door upon the upper 
step-stone, with not a doubt in her mind but that it 
is Burton, for she wishes it to be. Another proof: 
none of her other admirers drive up so quickly. 

She and Burton enter the house, and without 
ceremony her jaunty hat and light wraps are 
donned, and they are off for a ball at the village 

Fondly her father and mother follow them to 
the door, and after their departure return to their 
evening occupations and proudly discuss the future 
prospects of beautiful Cyn. 


A country ball! Did you ever attend one? 
Even as late as in the sixties the best families 
were represented at the*e public gatherings. In 
fact, it was expected that all the dancing portion 
of the community within a radius of at least ten 
miles would don their "best" and patronize their 
neighbor, the landlord, at least once each season, 
and many of them were as sure to be there at each 
festive scene as the thin-faced fiddler himself. In 
Cyn's young days, promiscuous as these dances 
might have been, they were yet quiet, neighbor- 
hood affairs. 

Neighbor Burton, the genial landlord, was 
respected for his money, and visited more or less 

by even the country gentry, despite the fact that 
he kept a bar, which he and his sons tended, 
except upon ball nights. 

Each village had its tavern of more or less con- 
sequence, and many of the farmers about felt that 
it was a necessity to have some place where of a 
cold night they could drop in and have a sup of 
something warming, to say nothing of a place to 
have the jug refilled in haying-time. 

I well remember hearing my father tell that he 
determined, when established upon a farm of his 
own, to hire no laborers except those who would 
agree to work without grog. This was a bold 
step, and when hay-time came his father-in-law 
felt it his duty to remonstrate with him upon 
his contemplated rashness. Father would not 
yield his point, and grandfather warningly said, 
" Young man, don't attempt any such foolhardy 
enterprise. I don't want to be sent for to attend 
a funeral right in the middle of haying." Father 
had his way, and there was no call for " funeral 
baked meats." It was not many years ere the 
aged patriarch saw the wisdom of his son-in-law's 
plan, and himself joined the ranks of the total- 
abstinence band, and was faithful to its principles 
unto death. 

This is a digression from Cyn, and yet not, for 
it may serve to indicate the public pulse at that 
time, and also why Burton Meredith, Jr., was 
considered just as eligible as though his father 
had not been a country rumseller. 

At this ball, Cyn, having Burton for her atten- 
dant, and thus passing part of the pauses between 
"sets" in the aristocratic seclusion of the family 
sitting-room, might have been the object of much 
envy had not the other girls become so thoroughly 
accustomed to playing second to Cyn's first that 
they scarcely rebelled. 

What lurking feeling there was of that kind 
revenged itself with commenting upon the symp- 
toms of anguish visible among Cyn's great num- 
ber of disappointed admirers. To night was no 
exception to the rule ; it was whispered that Cyn 
had refused seven after accepting Burton ! 

As she danced sweetly with the seven they 
seemed propitiated, and it was easy to be seen 
that next time the same moths would singe their 
foolish wings at the same lustrous flame — Cyn's 

And why was it? She was neither witty nor 
learned 1 I have often wondered that I never 



even heard any one say that she was clever, that 
middle class term for amiable, indolent stupidity. 
" Handsome? Yes, sir; handsome and stylish ; 
the men fell at her feet as before a Cleopatra ; but 
the secret of her attraction remained a secret to 
the keenest.' ' 


Barbara Bell, too, was fifteen to-day, but, un- 
like Cyn Hathaway, was not a belle among the 
vouthful beaux of their country circle. Barbara, 
or Baby, as she was always called at home and by 
her friends, had found her hands, head, and heart 
all too busy amid the multitude of home duties, 
to work mischief to herself or mates. 

Mrs. Bell had been an invalid ever since Baby's 
remembrance, but with such fortitude as none but 
mothers possess. She had interfered very rarely 
with Baby's school- hours, though before and after, 
as well as Saturdays and vacations, Baby was 
almost her mother's " right hand." 

The elder daughters were long ago settled with 
husbands and families of their own. Two brothers 
were now away, — one as clerk in a fancy- goods 
store, and one, for a wonder, had so far risen above 
the nambyism of the age as to enter a machine- 
shop as an apprentice. So now there was at home 
only Mr. Bell, his wife, seventeen-year-old Fred, 
and our sweet, womanly Baby. Even Fred was 
anxious to leave the old farm and "do something 
or be somebody." 

Mr. Bell grieved loudly that his boys had joined 
the march from the country city ward ; he sadly 
contrasted the present period with his own youth, 
when each son looked proudly forward to the day 
when he, too, like his father, should till his own 
land ; and proudest of all was that one who should 
inherit the old farm, and- who in his own old age 
could hope to occupy the same warm corner that 
his father had rested in after his work was done. 

Fred was not constrained to stay at home by 
his father's entreaties; but when Baby pleaded her 
loneliness if he should go, and pointed out to 
him that it clearly seemed intended that they two, 
the youngest, should care for their aged parents, 
he listened and staid. 

Father Bell said, with a painful sneer, "It 
seems sad to think, soon's I'm gone, the old 
place'U go 'under the hammer;' the young folks 
nowadays are all trying to get rid of work ; don't 
seem to have any backbone to 'em ; they arc all 

looking for a soft job, — a measuring-ribbon and 
selling worsted." 

The old man's disappointment at his eldest 
son's contempt of farming and satisfaction at be- 
coming, what he termed, "head counter-jumper," 
was bitter, and he never fully recovered from it. 
Even when the firm sent his son West for a choice 
selection of feathers, giving him only general 
directions, trusting all else to his good judgment 
and rarely exquisite taste, it was not a salve to his 
wounded feelings. "A man-milliner! I'd ruthcr 
he'd chopped wood all his life." And a disgusted 
tear-drop fell upon his withering hands. But Fate 
is not to be propitiated by old men's tears. 
George hated farming, and loved birds, feathers, 
and flowers, and yearly his firm deferred more 
and more to his taste and judgment. 

Baby and Fred soon acquired many a secret of 
the "trade" that enabled them, in their leisure 
moments between her household and his farm 
duties, to earn not a few shillings which furnished 
for themselves and the family home, luxuries that 
the farm productions would have failed to secure 
for them. 

When her "effeminate" brother was sent to 
Europe by his employers for flowers and ribbons 
and returned with Parisian knowledge of those 
things which promised for them as well as himself 
an assured income thrice any farmer's, >et farmer 
Bell was dissatisfied. Money to him was hardly 
money unless earned in his way. 

George Bell now had lung vacations between 
"seasons," and the two brothers and Baby studied 
together the gathered treasures, — fruits of his 
travels, — and gained much precious knowledge 
that gave them great pleasure and made them ob- 
jects of awe to their simple-minded neighbors. A 
natural skill for cabinet-work was stimulated into 
activity by the necessity of some place of security 
for their treasures. 

Cyn Hathaway always spoke of Baby Bell as a 
simpleton that never had a beau in her life, and 
" she's just as old as I am too," she would say. 

Baby was learning that men were not the only 
subjects worthy of study. 


The hills and valleys had been washed by spring 

deluges and dried by the sun's clear, spring-like 

rays of warmth and light, and now this lovely 

I morning, late in May, they did honor to their 



fostering care and beamed invitingly from their ! 
green and velvety heights and depths. 

Hill and plain lovingly caressed their rollicking, 
frolicking relative, the talkative brook, as he, 
careless as a boy of consequences, rushed impetu- 
ously over the neutral ground between their estates, 
heedless of aught except his desire to reach yonder 
meadows; yet not quite heedless, for he would 
bestow a drop of gracious attention now and then 
upon the lilies of the valley, children of the hill- 
side at his left, or banteringly glide out of his 
direct pathway to coquette with his country 
cousins, the Flagroot family, which were gathered 
in their clannish manner upon the bank of the 
plain at his right. Though these were flattered 
with his sweet advances, to him they were joys 
that any one might gather upon the wayside of 
life; for himself the goal of love and satisfied 
ambition lay in the broad meadows beyond ; there 
among the water-lilies, the vagrant, merry cow- 
slips, lay the broad arena which would give scope 
to his ambitious desires to become something more 
than a mere babbling stream — there he should be 
happy and content ! 

Willis Newell was about to graduate from the 
country school where he had gained the founda- 
tion for future education ; firmly and soundly had 
each winter's work been laid upon that of the 
season before. Perhaps he was none the less 
thorough and sure of that which he had learned 
that each summer his books were placed aside, 
while he picked stones, plowed, planted, hoed, 
and "hayed it," and returned not unto his studies 
until the last vegetable and fruit was harvested 
and stored; until the last corn-butt had been 
cleared off and added to the autumn pyre of refuse 
and incinerated. 

The Snyder family will doubtless here suggest 
that they burn their refuse in the spring. Don't 
doubt it, Messrs. Snyder; there are many who 
will agree with you, because they might die before 
spring, and in that case, if they had neglected it, 
some one else would have to perform the labor. 
The coat of arms of the numerous Snyder family 
should be,— one sleeping upon a bank of moss, 
with the motto, " Never do to-day that which you 
can put off till to-morrow." 

This was not Willis's coat of arms, and he could 
think and plan for the future even while drop- 
ping corn; the blue sky, the scudding clouds, 
the pleasant sun-rays, the invigorating smell of 

fresh earth, stimulated him to healthy, ambitious 
dreams of a future work whose results, unlike 
these, could not be garnered in the obscurity of 
the cellar or the crib. 

He dreamed of guiding the unthinking plod- 
ding masses, of being a leader in the world. 
Thanks to our republican government, the poorest 
born, though barefoot and hatless in youth, can 
with hope, as well as faith, dream of Congressional 
and Cabinet honors, and for the moment forget 
the soiled realities of hickory shirts and patched, 
short-legged overalls. 

Willis was none the less ambitious to succeed 
in life as he saw beautiful Cyn Hathaway growing 
daily more charming in face, more magnificently 
developed in form, more graceful in her general 
carriage, and most worthy, as he thought, of the 
fairest setting in life that wealth could give her. 
For her he would toil ; for her he would succeed. 
To him it seemed desecration that Burton Mere- 
dith, Jr., the village rumseller's son, should aspire 
to the honor of being an accepted suitor to that 
fairest of all fair women, Cyn. 

For himself he meant to carve a name and win 
a fortune that even royal Cyn need not disdain. 
For royal Cyn she always was to him, even 
though she was but a farmer's daughter. To him 
the signet of royalty was set upon her by God's 
hand, in her queenly figure, her superior grace of 
drapery, her loveliness of face, and smoothness of 
speech. * Do I reiterate her praises too often? 
Remember I am but the echo of her lovers, 
for the time being. She never ceased to charm, 
nor they to sing her praises). Was it not her 
own royal inheritance? Had it not, from the 
time of her first toddling about with the ordinary 
mud cake makers, set her apart from them by an 
invisible yet by all a well-understood line, across 
which they could not pass to come to her and 
which she would not pass to go to them ? There 
was no precedent by which we might deem it an 
inheritance; it was as though for some purpose 
she was set apart from the ordinary classes. It 
was not that she was wiser or nobler, yet she was 
not of the common mould. It seemed fitting that 
the best should be hers: it fitted her so fitly, she 
became it so well. 

How Willis Newell loved this queen of hearts ! 
For her he would willingly leave home and all its 
ties, that he might some day come back and offer 
her such a home, such riches, such luxuries of 



dress and jewels as she would become in a way no 
other woman could, even were she a real queen 
or a princess of royal blood of many years' deteri- 

O Cupid, how thou dost love to see thy de- 
votees wasting a luxuriance of affection where it 
shall bring them least return ! Couldst thou not, 
hard-hearted, wretched little imp, have whispered 
to him a word of caution, instead of aiding him 
in his self-deception ? For thou knewest ! I do not 
wonder that thou hidest thine elfish face; thou 
knowest the accusation is true; thou didst know, 
and thy friendly warning might have saved him, 
yet thou didst lure him on to his death ! For 
shame, Cupid boy ! Couldst thou not have 
opened his eyes to Baby Bell's good and true 
qualities and thus have saved him ? 

Be brave, Baby! Command thy heart in thy 
youth, and be thankful for his sake when God 
takes Willis from Cyn and anguish. 

Willis said good-bye to Cyn, and for her sake 
left his home and kindred to seek his fortune in 
the outer world. 


Even the sun seemed ever to shine upon all 
of Cyn's pet pleasures, and to day was no excep- 
tion to the general rule. 

To-day was Cyn's sixteenth birthday ; and to- 
day Cyn, resplendent in a light silk and white 
satin bonnet, was to be married to Burton Mere- 
dith, Jr., who would be attired in a lovely suit of 
black broadcloth trimmed with gold buttons and 
thrown into artistic relief by an embroidered white 
satin vest and a much beruffled shirt-front. 

Indeed, as Cyn lay upon her pillow this morn- 
ing, dreamily remembering that it was her birth- 
morning and indolently enjoying the morning's 
sunlight that was lovingly embracing her, and 
dreamily thinking of her future prospects and 
enumerating her blessings, she mentally decided 
that first among these would rank her trousseau; 
secondly, his well-chosen wardrobe; thirdly, her 
prettily furnished rooms at Mr. Meredith, Sr.'s, 
and lastly, the fact that her board would be paid 
at her father-in-law's, and she would have nothing 
to do but to dress prettily and look as bewitching 
as possible. 

When she tried on her wedding silk and realized 
how her rich complexion became the delicate j 
pearl tints of her dress, and bitterly appreciated 

how sad it was that the skimp of a glass was able 
to reflect only a small portion of her beauty, she 
resolved determinedly that there were two things 
in this world that she would have. First, Burton 
should buy her a large gilt-framed mirror, one 
that, by hanging it tipping, would reveal her to 
herself from head to foot. This bridal morning 
sh£ is thinking with pleasure that that mirror is 
awaiting the bride's arrival. 

Her second resolve was none the less wise nor 
important; she wildly — as the village seamstress 
thought — announced that after she was Mrs. Mere- 
dith, Jr., she should never buy any dress material 
except light silk. 

" Why, ye don't s'pose Burt can afford to keep 
ye in silks all the time, do ye?" said Scissors-and- 

"He'll have to; for I will have them. His 
father's bar does a good round business, to say 
nothing of the farm. And now Burton is going 
to tend altogether, and he will make good pay. 
I told Burton I wouldn't marry him unless he 
stopped working on the farm; 'twas making his 
hands so rough and dark." And Cyn looked 
admiringly at her own baby-like fingers. 

" Wal, I d'now; but if 'twas me, I'd ruther 
he'd work on the farm than tend bar," ventured 
the ancient maiden dressmaker. 

" Oh ! I hadn't ; I'd live single till I was as old 
as you are before I'd marry anybody but a gentle- 
man ! Burton will now dress up every day, and 
his hands will grow as white and soft as they ought 
to be in a little while." 

"Wal, I d'know but ye're right; anyway, I 
wish ye well; ye ain't much but a baby, anyway, 
and to think ye're going to be married!" And 
the withered face looked tenderly sad and tearful. 

"Yes; isn't it splendid? Mother says there 
hasn't been a girl married in either town for 
years as young as 1 am, and it isn't my only offer, 
not by a good deal." And she tossed her head 
proudly. " 1 guess if I should tell you just whom I 
might have had, you'd open your eyes some ; but 
then I didn't want them, for they were all poorer 
than Burton and his folks, and not half so genteel. 
Farmers! Bah! I've seen enough of farming; 
and then there's my setting-out ; 1 wouldn't go to 
housekeeping, so I can have it all for clothes t 
Wasn't I a wise girl? After father had got me 
what he thought was enough, I teased and teased 
till he bought me that changeable silk, the pink 



and green one; and say, you must tell mother ' than at any period during his father's regency, 

that it must be trimmed with white lace." 

"I d'know ez I re'lly want to; s'pose they ! 
don't feel ez though they could afford it? I 
heerd that yer pa had to sell a cow and a calf to get 
thai silk for ye, and I hate to ding him for what 
ain't re'lly needed. We can trim it very well ; 
with shirrings of the silk ; thar's enuff." 

" You'll ask them for that white lace, or you'll 
never sew for me again ; and mind that you don't 
help spread the yarn about selling that stock." 

Meekly the poor woman promised ; her cus- 
tomers were few in this self-supporting, self-help- 
ing community, and well she realized that she 
could not afford to offend a good customer, and 
Cyn, be she married or single, would always need 
help, and have it. 

After a fashion, as usual, Cyn had gained her 
desires for the present; how long she would be 
satisfied none could prophesy, for new possessions 
would only lead to greater longings for those 
luxuries which had hitherto been beyond her 


Two years have passed, and Burton the Second 
is celebrating his first birthday with innocent baby 
cooings that almost touch his proud mother's 

Cyn has changed during these two years, only 
as she has grown more beautiful ; hers is a face 
that will long be fresh, for she never worries, 

and he had acquired wealth. Many a neighbor's 
farm had he chuckingly absorbed at his bar, giving 
in exchange for lands and bank-stock eternal 
misery for and families. "As ye sow, 
so shall ye reap." 

Even so ; and to-day father Meredith is expia- 
ting the sin of taking a friendly glass or two with 
a neighbor at his own bar and at his own expense, 
for the unworthy purpose of enticing people there 
to pass their evenings and to spend their money 
for his liquors and their own ruin. 

Many a man after being "treated" by Mr. 
Meredith once or twice, in the exuberance of his 
gratitude for the condescension, added to the 
exhilaration of the stimulants, would insist upon 
treating the crowd (never missing at such haunts) 
for the benefit of his host ; after that he would 
need a parting glass, and by the time this was 
drunk he would be oblivious of home and its 
attractions, and would be fully determined to 
make a night of it, now that he was with such 
good friends. " Change? No, sir; keep it, sir; 
keep it, sir. I've money enough; don't have to 
count the pennies quite so close as that yet; give 
us another glass, and all around too; don't never 
mean to be small about these things; here's an 
'X,' and if that isn't enough, just say so, for 
there's more where that came from, sir." 

So the glass or two given does its work thor- 
oughly and quickly, and the morning finds such 
men as "neighbor Meredith" large sums of money 

never works, and takes the most delicate care of i in and some hard-working neighbor the same 

herself, and allows neither persons nor things to ; amount out. 

cause her discomfort. 

Not even the fact that her boy-husband is gel- 
ting too stout and flushed of face for his growing 
habits to be longer concealed can for an instant 
make her pulse throb with anxiety. Yet she loves 
Burton as well as she is capable of loving ; she 
loves him for his beauty, his money, for his indul- 
gence of her whims, and loves him for his good 
judgment in loving and admiring her beautiful 

Father Meredith had imbibed behind the bar 
until he was no longer able nor fit to have charge 
of the fiery demons embottled upon the shelves 
along the wall. Nearly a year ago he had 

A heavy interest? Yes, a very heavy interest, 
testified to by the fact that at sixty Meredith finds 
himself a besotted toper, unable to do business, 
unable either to drink or deny himself without 
suffering untold agonies. A fine sermon upon his 
life-work is his imbecile countenance. 

The best temperance lecture is the exhibition 
that a drunken man unwittingly makes of himself, 
and he or she who is not converted thereby will 
never heed shouting from the rostrum, be it ever 
so loud. Clod's pity upon the person who fails to 
read the lesson correctly. 

The tell-tale spots are now burning fiercely 
upon young Burton's face, and liquor is more 
poisonous now than in his father's youth ! Hark 

retired, and Burton had asssumed the whole 

charge of the vile but lucrative business; since*- to the voice, " As ye sow" 

which the revenue therefrom had been greater; {To be continued. \ 




By Elizabeth Oakes Smith. 

In considering the character of this eminent I sphere of creation, and that range neither small 
woman, we are led at once to ask wherein her nor uninspiring? Milton's beautiful language 
greatness consisted. She was a philanthropist, | would seem not only to apply to his own marvel- 
ous requirements for 
himself as the ideal of 
what a poet should be, 
but to have prefigured 
the advent of a Lucretia 
Mott in an age where 
the personal poem is 
more significant to 
woman than the sweet- 
est rhythmic utterance ! 
Milton says : 

" He who would not 
be frustrate of his hope 
to write well hereafter 
in laudable things, 
ought himself to be a 
true poem ; that is, a 
composition and pat- 
tern of the best and 
honorablest things, not 
presuming of high 
praises of heroic men 
or famous cities, unless 
he have in himself the 
/ experience and the 

• mutt, practice of all that 

which is praiseworthy." 
I shall use largely a reminiscent manner por- 
traying the character of Lucretia Mott, for it 
was my privilege to know her, and to work 
somewhat in the field consecrated by her labors. 
In 1851 I lectured several times in Nantucket, 
where I was hospitably entertained by those hold- 
ing family relations to her. This island is a wild, 
barren, sandy waste, and yet here may be found 
grand specimens of men and women distinguished 
for all the more austere and nobler virtues. Wealth 
was not wanting, and their generous boards were 
It is not merely what Lucretia Mott did that | covered with silver and with porcelain from China 
demands our attention. It is what she was. She | when intercourse with that country was limited to 
stands forth in the beautiful relief of a piece of the hardy mariners whose intelligent commanders 
statuary. What need of the pen where the tongue carried our commerce to every clime. 
was all eloquence, and the life all perfect in its I was struck by the self-poise of these people. 

have philan- 
thropists not a few. 
She was not a writer, 
and we have number- 
less women deft wield- 
ers of the pen ; we have 
women speakers upon 
all themes; we have 
professional women, 
physicians and lawyers 
and merchants, and yet 
amid this superabund- 
ance of female intellect, 
aptly utilized, Lucretia 
Mott stands by herself, 
individual and alone in 
the supreme complete- 
ness of character. She 
wrote no poem, and yet 
in thinking of her we 
instinctively think of 

We compare her as 
a. whole with no less a 
personage than the sub- 
lime poet, for Lucretia mi-ma 
Mott realized to the 

mind his requirement for a poet; and though 
she wrote no poetry, she was in the absolute 
of being what is far better. She was herself 
a poem. I know of nothing more complete. 
She realized in herself the sweetest of idyls ; 
solemn didactic measures imparted their conse- 
cration; Tc Deumsand religious ascriptions lifted 
her beyond the pettiness of the commonplace, 
while the limitations of sex and the wail of the 
slave inspired in her the greatness of the tragic 
muse and the grandeur of the epic. 



and hardly wondered that Lucretia Mott, allied to 
them by the Folgers and the Coffins, should be 
what she was. It was the best of the Quaker blood, 
and the best of that of our hardy, enterprising 
sea-captains whose keels plowed the deep sound- 
ings of the Arctic seas in pursuit of the whale and 
the walrus. A strong race, little affected by mere 
conventionalities, but bearing the impress of the 
culture and social stamina of the times of Milton 
and George Fox. 

On this seemingly desolate island, in January, 
1793, Lucretia Coffin saw the light. From the 
first and through life she was of a most delicate 
and refined organization. The fine blood of the 
Folgers flowed in her veins, as it did in those of 
Benjamin Franklin, and the tonq of a long ancestry 
of independent thinkers and pure-minded men and 
women culminated in her. She was of small stat- 
ure, but her head was a model in its well-balanced 
proportions and large size. Mr. Comb, the lec- 
turer upon phrenology, said it was intellectually 
larger than any other woman's head he had ever 
examined, and this, coupled with a most dignified 
presence, gave an impression of a person much 
larger than she was, for she never weighed ninety 
pounds, and her weight was even less than that 
the last years of her life. 

Mrs. Coffin kept a small store the first years of 
Lucretia's life, and with this and the care of her 
eight children must have been not only capable, 
but very diligent, gwing back and forth from 
Nantucket to Boston, where she exchanged oil, 
candles, etc., for the groceries she required. 
Captain Coffin was gone much on his long 
whaling voyages. They were prosperous, till in an 
evil hour he endorsed a note for a friend, which, 
being compelled to pag, involved the family in 
great difficulty. They were obliged, when Lucre- 
tia was about eleven years old, to remove to 
Boston, where the mother and the father were 
both sorely taxed to keep their little household 

In Boston the children went to public or private 
schools and mixed with all classes, which would 
be no detriment to one constituted, as Lucretia 
was from the first, with a high moral sense. At 
length she and a sister were sent to a Friends' 
boarding-school. in Duchess County, New York. 
Here her diligence and aptitude to learning, no 
as than the trustworthy personal qualities of the 
irl of fifteen, secured for her the position of 

teacher, with the privilege of gratuitous education 
of a younger sister. 

Lucretia Mott, though not an egotist, was not 
averse to speaking of herself in a becoming spirit, 
nor is any one who is fully conscious of a thor- 
oughly wholesome soul-life. The family had 
moved soon after she became a teacher to Phila- 
delphia, at which place she at length joined them, 
and she thus speaks of herself: 

"At the age of eighteen I married James Mott, 
of New York, an attachment formed while at the 
boarding-school. He came to Philadelphia, and 
entered into business with my father. The fluc- 
tuations in the commercial world for several years 
following our marriage, owing to the embargo 
and the war of 1812, the death of my father, and 
the support of five children devolving upon my 
mother, surrounded us with difficulties. We 
resorted to various modes of obtaining a comfort- 
able living, — at one time engaged in the retail 
dry-goods business, then I resumed the charge of 
a school, and for another year was engaged in 
teaching. These trials in early life were not 
without their good effect in disciplining the mind 
and leading it to set a just estimate on the world's 
pleasures. I, however, always loved the good, in 
childhood desired to do right, and had no faith in 
the generally-received idea of human depravity." 

In speaking of Lucretia Mott, it is too much 
the habit of persons to ignore her husband, James, 
who was a right royal man, tall, handsomely-pro- 
portioned, and morally as well as intellectually a 
worthy companion to the more sensitive and ideal 
character of Lucretia. Less impulsive, less pene- 
trating, he was not less high-toned, and was 
supremely a generous and appreciative-minded 
man, able to see the divinely-inspired genius of 
his wife. That she owed much in .her long career 
to this wise, kindly, and most devoted affection 
no one will deny. This conjugal union, as Swe- 
denborg would call it, is an added grace to the 
life of Lucretia Mott, and evolved the sweetness 
and completeness of her remarkable womanhood. 
From their marriage in 181 1 to 1868, when James 
Mott died, nothing ever came between the hearts 
of these two; of them it might be fitly said, they 
were " they whom God hath joined together." 

James Mott was at one time engaged in the 
cotton business, but the two having conscientious 
scruples from its connection with slave labor, it 
was abandoned, though becoming very profitable, 



and Lucretia opened a school till something more 
in accordance with their principles should offer 
itself. At length he look up the wool business, 
from the proceeds of which he finally amassed a 
handsome fortune. 

At the age of twenty-five Lucretia commenced 
her public career as a preacher in the Society of 
Friends, and at that time her appearance must 
have been exceedingly attractive. With a form 
of faultless proportions, a noble contour of head, 
deep-set, luminous eyes, a countenance expressive 
of purity and high intellectuality, and a voice of 
winning sweetness, she appealed to the best sen- 
sibilities of her hearers. In her ministrations she 
traveled through Pennsylvania and all the New 
England States, attracting the attention of relig- 
ious people of all denominations, people going 
long distances to hear the "Quaker preacher." 
Having, in middle life, adopted the. opinions of 
Elias Hicks, she was at once accepted by those of 
the Unitarian belief, who, up to the last, have 
fully appreciated her worth as a woman and her 
superior intelligence as a theological thinker. 
Later she was closely affiliated with the free relig- 
ious movement of our day. 

But Lucretia Mott was one of the most remark- 
able of intuitive thinkers, and depended more 
upon the witness of the Spirit than upon any creed 
or any doctrine, however or by whomsoever sup- 
ported. She is reported to have once said to a 
questioner: "Put me down as heretic of the 
heretics; as radical of radicals; and although I 
am not an infidel, I am not an orthodox, and 
would as lief be thought the one as the other.' ' 
Brave words these, and worthy of one who was 
lenient to all who might differ from her, and who 
was wont to say, " We are all ignorant, and should 
not presume to teach any one the eternal source 
of good.' ' 

From the first she was a leader in the anti- 
slavery movement, sharing in the perils and odium 
which surrounded the partisans, and a leader in 
the cause of woman suffrage. These proclivities 
were as natural as the breath of life to one who 
followed the truth revealed to her, mindless 
whither it might lead, and no doctrine but the 
purest and highest could find any acceptance in 
such a mind. Through all these public ministries 
she was never neglectful of any duty as wife or 
mother. She suckled her own children ; knit 
and sewed and cooked, and made bed -quilts 

and rag-carpets; was never careless of house 
or household. 

In 1855 I gave several courses of lectures 
in different parts of the city of Philadelphia. 
At this time I saw much of this trulv beautiful 
household composed of the sons and daughters 
and their wives and husbands. They had lived 
thus as one family for eight years, and Lucretia 
remarked to me, " The first disagreeable word has 
not been spoken." It was a bright, cheery house- 
hold, quite gay for a Friend's, with tasteful, 
elegant dressing and pleasant music. I was more 
than once at the family receptions, where Lucretia, 
knitting-work in hand, moved about with an apt 
remark here and a word and smile there, eliciting 
the best abilities of her guests and putting all 
upon an easy footing. She several times took me 
to ride with her and charmed me by her elevated 
and poetic cast of mind and conversation. She 
was alive to all the beauties of scenery, and often 
ready with some sweet poetic extract garnered 
away in her retentive memory. It would exceed the 
limits of this article to repeat the substance of re- 
marks ineffaceably impressed on my mind. Sweet, 
glowing affections, serene aspirations, generous in- 
timations, and not infrequent touches of humor, 
made her the most delightful of companions. 

She presented me the life and writings of Mary 
Woolstoncraft, which I had not seen till then, 
though speaking and writing upon kindred sub- 
jects. Her reading was not extensive, but she read 
and studied the few. She was the first also to draw 
my attention to the writings of Blanco White, and 
repeated, with fine tone and manner on our way 
to a Friend's boarding-school, his unique, almost 
sublime sonnet, entitled "Night." 

Lucretia, like the divine masters, though affluent 
in power, gathered up the fragments that nothing 
be lost, with a sweet, frugal parsimony. She 
seemed to lose sight of nothing that might minister 
to human good. I saw her last at the Suffrage 
Convention, at Rochester, where she spoke with 
her wonted clearness, though her face beamed 
1 with a transfigured light not of this world. As 
she turned to leave, the audience instinctively 
rose to their feet, and she went down the aisle, 
uttering, it would seem, her words of inspiration 
unconsciously, her back to us all — down the aisle, 
talking the while, and out — and we shall meet 
her no more outside the Gate Beautiful, into which 
she has entered. 




By the Author of "The First Violin." 

"God be thanked, the meanest of His creatures 
Boasts two soul-sides; one to face the world with, 
And one to show a woman when he loves her." 



" Holloa, Aglionby ! whither away?" 

"Me ? I'm off to the Palace of Ceres, to testify 
my allegiance to the Liberal cause." 

" Oh, the Liberal Demonstration ! I wish you 
joy, I'm sure !" 

"Thank you. I don't say that I shall agree 
with all I hear, but I want to know what they 
have to say for themselves." 

"Contradictious, as usual." 

" Aren't you going too?" 

"Why on earth should I go? We had our 
tarn last week, my boy. You seem to forget 
that there has been a Conservative Demonstration 
already, and that we had a great triumph at the 
Palace of Ceres last Saturday. Ours is an accom- 
plished fact, while yours has yet to come off." 

"A great triumph had you?" returned Agli- 
onby, a gleam of humor, of a kind the reverse of 
angelic, lighting up his dark, lean visage. " I 
know there was a great row, because I was there, 
and helped to make it ; if you like to call it a 
triumph, I've no objection, I'm sure." 

"I'll go bail you never were at so enthusiastic 
a meeting in your life," was the vehement retort. 

" Never at such a noisy one, I admit. I hope 
your chief speaker felt soothed and cheered alto- 
gether with his Irkford reception. That scene on 
the platform " 

"A fine scene!" said the other, reddening 
angrily all over his fair and ingenuous counte- 
nance. "A fine display of English feeling, to 
hoot down a respectable, honest man, just because 
his opinions happen to differ from yours !" 

"Now, my dear fellow, don't let your feelings 
carry you away. I was there as well as you, and 
I'm proud to own that I groaned as loud as any- 
body, not just because my opinions differ from his 
—heaven forbid t That was a meeting, Percy ! 
I congratulate you." 

"It was what we wanted — a demonstration," 
replied his friend, chafing. 

"Very much so," said Aglionby politely. 
"The question is — a demonstration of what?" 

"Our party have clearly-defined principles, 
which they know. They don't want them ex- 
pounding over and over again, like yours. I 
hope you may get at something this afternoon — 
something definite, I mean. At any rate, you 
will have a good chance of hearing. You see, we 
had ninety thousand of an audience. To-day, there 
will be you, the speakers, and the reporters." 

"Thanks for that sparkling gem of banter. 
'Won't you join the dance?' Will yon really 
not come and save the meeting from irretrievable 
disgrace? If we could proudly embellish our 
report in Monday's paper with the distinguished 
name of Percy Golding, Esq., we should feel that 
our exertions had not been made in vain." 

" I can tell you, you won't get the chance of 
doing any such thing," said Mr. Golding, in 
a huff. Then, rapidly changing the subject, he 
added in milder tones: 

"Where's Miss Vane? Isn't she going with 
you?" ; 

" Miss Vane is at home. She cares nothing 
about such things, I'm happy to say. Women 
have no business at political meetings — especially 
young women." 

" Lots of ladies are going. Half the reserved 
seats are taken up with them," said Percy; but 
his expression showed that he was at one with his 
friend on the last point, if not as to political 
principles in general. 

" Oh ! then there will be one or two others in 
addition to myself and the reporters, after all. I 
haven't got a reserved seat. They are too expen- 
sive. I'm going with the cads in the shilling 
places, and, in case any one else should happen 
to do the same thing, I will go on and secure 
a place. Farewell ! Can't I persuade you, 
really? I would stand between you and suffo- 
cation from overcrowding." 

" My opinions on political matters are formed, 
thank you," said Mr. Golding stiffly. 

" Happy man ! Mine are only in the process 
of development. Once more, farewell !" 

Percy Golding returned his nod, and the two 



young men separated. Bernard Aglionby, ware- 
houseman in an Irkford firm, Radical, and free- 
thinker, took his way toward the city; Percy 
Golding, his friend, banker's clerk, Conservative 
and Churchman, took his way out of it, humming 
a tune the while, and hastening his steps more 
than he had done when he had met Aglionby. 
They were fast friends, and had been so for many 
years. They squabbled incessantly, but quarreled 

As Aglionby's long legs carried him quickly 
down the broad and busy thoroughfare., which 
gradually, as the town grew thicker, became less 
broad and more busy, there was at first a strongly 
perceptible smile visible upon his dark, keen face, 
and that smile a sarcastic one. He had a remark- 
able face, with sharp, handsome, clear-cut features, 
a firm mouth, a fine brow, and dark eyes, which 
were often seen brilliant, but rarely soft, and 
which were illumined oftener than not with a 
glowing spark of malice and mockery. They 
darted from one object to another with a keenness 
and quickness which were remarkable. Nothing 
seemed to escape their scrutiny; yet there was 
rarely any pensiveness to be seen in their expres- 
sion. Eyes and mouth, too, were given to smiling 
frequently, and a hearty laugh was by no means a 
rare event in this young man's life. Yet his laugh 
was not contagious, and was oftenest heard when 
others were perfectly grave, giving his company 
an uncomfortable sensation that he laughed at, 
rather than with them. 

" I wonder if we shall muster a hundred and 
fifty thousand this afternoon?" he speculated 
within himself, as he strode onward, and kept 
passing pieces of boarding covered with monstrous 
broadsheets, conspicuous among which was a huge 
poster in red letters on a white ground — "Palace 
of Ceres, Knottley, near Irkford. This day. 
Grand Liberal Demonstration. Speeches will be 

made by Messrs. and , I-ord John Pon- 

sonby in the chair. Proceedings to commence at 
three o'clock precisely." 

11 The Tories had ninety thousand after all de- 
ductions were made," he reflected, "and that's a 
big crowd. I should like us to beat it." 

He whistled softly to himself as he strode on in 
the brisk, pleasant air of the October afternoon ; 
brisk and pleasant even in the smoky streets of 
the huge, dingy, manufacturing town. 

" I hope it will be over in time for me to take 

Lizzie to the theatre," he again reflected. "As 
she has got her new toggery, she will want to 
show it, sense or no sense. Girls are so odd." 

He was in the thick now of the great, dirty 
town, and turned off down a street inscribed 
"City Road;" very long, very straight, dingy, 
and uninviting in appearance. Here the walls 
were enlivened with a constant succession of the 
red and white posters, announcing in terms im- 
possible to tie misconstrued, more and more par- 
ticulars as to the approaching "Grand Liberal 
Demonstration at the Palace of Ceres," to be held 
that afternoon. By and by this road became 
more and more crowded. Cabs, carriages, and 
foot-passengers were all increasing in numbers, 
and all steadily thronging in one direction. From 
the steps of a railway station poured a continuous 
stream of persons — men and women both — all 
turning toward one point, where in the dim dis- 
tance could be seen looming through the smoke a 
huge, dome-shaped roof, that of the great hall 
belonging to the euphoniously-named " Palace of 

Aglionby recognized an acquaintance here and 
there, nodded briefly, and stalked onward, his 
great height and his long strides giving him an 
advantage o